


Bad Company

by LilRedRobinHood



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Teen Titans (Animated Series), Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Jason Todd is Red X, Kidnapping, Mercenaries, Moral Dilemmas, No Slash, TW: emotional/psychological abuse, Twisted father-son relationship, Which is to say not at all, alternating povs, apprentice au, bruce is coping as well as can be expected, exploration of psychology and faith and morality, it gets darker before it gets better, patchwork canon, that’s not really a spoiler, turbulent sibling relationship, tw: physical abuse, tw: suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:21:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 41,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27153082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LilRedRobinHood/pseuds/LilRedRobinHood
Summary: Deathstroke's son is dead and he demands an apprentice to pay off the blood debt--Robin, specifically.While the already-grieving Dark Knight's investigation devolves into a self-destructive spiral, Dick clings stubbornly to his ideals...and somewhere along the line he might end up accidentally befriending his dead brother.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Barbara Gordon, Cassandra Cain & Barbara Gordon, Cassandra Cain & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Jason Todd, Dick Grayson & Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson & Teen Titans, Dick Grayson/Koriand'r
Comments: 71
Kudos: 170





	1. Renegade

**Author's Note:**

> I'll put out the first four chapters one per week, and after that I should be turning out about one chapter a month, because I've got about 50K worth of presentable third draft, 50K more of quasi-presentable second draft, and ~50K after that of mostly untouched first draft. But. steady progress is being made.
> 
> You can find me at chief-of-restless-hearts.tumblr.com where I've been posting art for Bad Company and intend to post more in the future.
> 
> Any comments are appreciated!
> 
> P.S. In this patchwork AU of TTA and comic canon, Dick is fifteen.

Draped over the rim of the barrel, the tangled cape dripped gasoline into the surrounding garbage as well as the soaked crimson vest that looked a shiny black in the dark alley, tucked away from both streetlights and stars. 

The liquid and garbage intermingled to concoct a stench that turned Dick’s stomach, and made it even harder to swallow as he tried to loosen the strange tightening in his throat. He dropped the nearly empty canister. What remained of the liquid inside sloshed dully as it toppled by his feet.

“Is this really necessary,” he forced out, as harshly as he could. 

Large gloved hands grabbed his wrist, pried his fingers open, and pressed what he knew to be a lighter into his palm. Dick lifted his chin to glare into the one narrowed blue eye visible through Deathstroke’s mask. 

“Did I ask for your opinion?” 

The ice-cold response wasn’t a question. In the past nine long hours the assassin hadn’t asked his opinion even once. He hadn’t even asked Robin to join him before resting his thumb over the nanoprobe trigger and ordering him into what looked like a black and orange parody of Deathstroke’s uniform--and wasn’t that sort of choice supposed to happen somewhere along the line?

But it wasn’t like Deathstroke had _needed_ to ask. 

Dick had only hesitated to obey an order once--just once--and Deathstroke had _shown_ him what would happen if he did it again. 

...Kory had fallen so heavily into his arms, shuddering with that horrible pulsing glow under her skin. His throat was still raw from screaming for Deathstroke to make it stop. 

It hadn’t. Not until Dick obeyed the order. Not until he raised the blaster, looked into her confused, frightened face, and shot her in the chest.

Shadows of the recoil shuddered up the guilty arm and he squeezed his eyes shut, the real world withering at the edges. _She’s alive_ , he reminded himself, again. _She’ll be fine_. 

The costume that lay in the barrel now, scuffed and torn from the humiliating defeats that had left him with fresh aches and bruises, wasn’t even his only one. But that wasn’t the point, was it? The only reason Deathstroke had for making him do this was to prove that he could.

And he _could_.

Dick studied the lighter in his hand, running his thumb along the catch. He snapped it back once. Twice. The third time, it lit. He studied the flame, tiny, golden, and dancing, their solitary light source. Shadows of light flickered across his cape, the black and butter yellow merging into a single warm tone. 

He guided the light to the barrel--and drew back sharply as it whipped into a sudden blaze, and watched with morbid fascination as it chewed away at the gaping hole in his vest where the ‘R’ insignia should have been. 

Deathstroke must have ripped it out after Dick left for Wayne Tower. Maybe he wanted a trophy. 

Dick didn’t care to ask. 

A hand wrapped around his shoulder, pulling him away from the blaze. Instinctively Dick recoiled from the touch, only for Deathstroke’s grip to tighten just enough to send pain throbbing out of his heavily bruised shoulder--the same one that had been twisted close to the breaking point only a few hours before. He stiffened under the contact. 

Was he doing that on purpose?

Of course he was. 

Dick gnawed at the inside of his cheek, refusing to shudder. 

Keeping his friends alive came first, for now. All he needed to do was find a plan that wouldn’t end with Deathstroke activating the probes with a button or a word and murdering the Titans. They wouldn’t even know what was happening as they burned from the inside out--and it would all happen because their leader had been deluded enough to think he could play Deathstroke’s mind games and win.

He trained his gaze on the car waiting at the end of the alley. The tinted windows glinted under the light from surrounding street lamps and Halloween decorations from a neighboring shop window as they approached, and as they stepped onto the sidewalk the biting autumn wind chilled him despite the thermal material of the new uniform. 

Deathstroke opened the door, nudged him toward the opening. Dick ducked into the backseat, and then they were pulling into the road again. 

Staring out the window he watched the passing of varied gaudy displays for the rapidly approaching holiday, webs and lights and plastic skeletons splattered with a grisly shade of red paint that hadn’t bothered him until now.

But he had attached the color to Deathstroke’s name for years before he had ever met him.

. . .

_“So the guy we’re lookin’ for is a mercenary.” Dick was balanced on a handstand on the computer desk, and checked again to see if Bruce was looking. Bruce was scrolling through the same pages upon pages of case files that he had been for the past three hours, and Dick was miles past bored. “Like the A-Team?”_

_Bruce’s hands faltered over the keyboard. “Not exactly.”_

_“Kinda like us, except they get paid to help people’n blow stuff up, right?”_

_Bruce still wasn’t looking at him, and Dick frowned. Something was off. “They are paid,” Bruce said slowly. “But for real life mercenaries, contract killers, or assassins like this ‘Deathstroke’...their targets are usually people.”_

_Trapeze lines, expertly burnt through with acid, flashed suddenly and searingly across Dick’s mind._

_He dropped clumsily onto his haunches and swallowed the gross taste building in the back of his mouth._

_“Oh.”_

. . .

_“Robin, step outside.”_

_A safe house. This was supposed to be a...safe house, for Cobblepott’s informers._

_Not a crime scene._

_But he opened his eyes again, and saw it again, the sword-hewn corpses, and the blood...so much of it..._

_An arm wrapped around his shoulders, and Batman’s blurry but distinctive black shadow enveloped and guided him away from the bodies toward a chair. Dick sat down, numbly, with two strong but gentle hands on his shoulders and his wide eyes fixed to Batman’s unchanging white lenses like the lifeline they were. “Breathe, Robin,” Batman ordered, and Robin sucked in the sharp, hungry gulp of air he needed to choke out a sob. He clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle it. Robin didn’t cry._

_Dick felt rather than saw Batman flinch, and then begin to pull away uncertainly. Dick shook his head desperately, grabbed the hands that were beginning to pull away to press them back over his shoulders, and Batman’s posture softened._

_“I’m sorry,” Batman murmured, and the apology was so absurd that Dick nearly laughed. Bruce never knew which things were his fault. He had said the same thing when Dick’s parents were crumpled on circus dust, while turning him away from the bodies and the blood. But even here, even with Bruce to hold onto, to keep the vertigo from sucking him down too, he could still smell the blood._

. . .

They’d never caught him, and neither had anyone else. Deathstroke’s ‘business’ carried him across the globe and he was as professional at covering his tracks as he was at everything else. In the years since then he had even earned the title of ‘world’s deadliest assassin’ with a kill count that stacked higher by the week--and now he wanted to teach Robin how to add to that number as his _apprentice_ , as though he were offering him a promising career rather than a lifetime of uncovering new and exciting ways to rip other human beings apart.

He needed to find a way to purge the nanoprobes from the Titans’ bloodstreams before Deathstroke realized that teaching his new apprentice to kill was a losing battle. Time was ticking. But this charade was buying precious time for all of them. It was what Batman would have done. 

What Batman would do and what he would tell _Robin_ to do had always been two entirely separate things...but that was why Dick had left.

The car veered right and began to pull down familiar side streets. It was hard to believe that it had been only that morning that he had fallen for the baited trail to Deathstroke’s underground base. The entrance he had found in the sewer had since been blocked off. Useless to anyone who might follow him now. 

If only he hadn’t insisted on separating from the rest of the team. If only he had called for backup when he found the trail. If only he hadn’t been a complete _jackass_ to the same friends that his mere existence was now placing in mortal danger.

The car rounded another bend, pulling onto an overgrown patch of land against the bay and veering toward a dilapidated brick warehouse that would have looked right at home in the more decrepit recesses of Gotham. Deathstroke pulled up to the entrance and paused to tap something into the wrist computer tucked under his glove. 

Dick stared at the device, transfixed. He imagined himself lunging over Deathstroke’s shoulder to seize it, to crush it, to destroy Deathstroke’s immediate means of harming his friends and then--

The daydream ran through his mind on a seemingly endless cycle in the space of an instant, each time ending with the cramped quarters rendering him helpless against Deathstroke’s inevitable counterattack just like every attempt before. Deathstroke would injure or kill him, and then he would use the bunker computers to kill his friends anyway. 

The warehouse entrance slid open and the glove slid back into place over the computer. They drove inside. The car settled over the far corner of the vacant building, triggering the descent of a platform that had until then been indistinguishable from the rest of the floor. 

Dick had absorbed every detail of the building’s layout when they first came out this way less than an hour before, though he was unconvinced of how useful the information would prove. The platform descended to a level that was basically a garage filled wall to wall with vehicles of wildly varied makes and models. 

They parked, and Dick followed Deathstroke across the room to the lift with automatic, robotic motions. His heart sank with the lift as they descended ever deeper underground.

At last it halted. Opened. Dick stepped out and into a deep, cold, and poorly lit expanse that smelled of must and oiled machinery and echoed with the soft thunder of turning gears. Intermittent ceiling lights filtered down in dappled shades of orange and burgundy through the massive gearwork that dominated much of the room. Standing out in stark contrast were the computer systems at the far end of the room. The bright screens still advertised scans of Cyborg, Beast Boy, Raven, Starfire, and the microscopic probes still running through their veins. 

Dick almost wished that the scans were labelled with his friends’ names rather than their titles, when their lives were on the line. It was dehumanizing. But then, Victor, Gar, Raven, and Kory were nothing more than bargaining pieces to Deathstroke. 

Maybe he didn’t know their names, but with everything else that he knew Dick couldn’t help but think that any oversight must be a willful one. Dick’s identity had certainly been in his reach, but despite having been compelled to replace his original mask with a new one, he had noticed Deathstroke averting his eyes while Dick ducked his head to make the hasty trade of disguises. He might not understand why, but if Deathstroke was allowing him to keep his identity to himself, that was a leniency that Dick did not want to challenge. 

Deathstroke brushed past him, shrugging off the long trench coat that had served to cover most of the glistening weaponry and bold oranges of his uniform. “Follow me,” he said without turning, and after a bitter hesitation, Dick did. 

Deathstroke’s pace didn’t slow, and Dick winced inwardly with discomfort of keeping up. Sitting still in the car had caused the adrenaline to finally wear off; his strained muscles were beginning to cramp, his aches were settling into tender bruises, and he felt like he’d been hit by a truck.

In a manner of speaking, he had. 

Deathstroke led him through a doorway almost entirely concealed by the shadows and then down a long hallway that was painfully bright in contrast. Only the occasional passed door interrupted the plain hallway’s monotony, and Dick kept careful record of their every turn. If he could maintain even a little control over his life, he would at least like to know where he was and how to find his way out if...

...When. 

_When_ he found a way to cure the Titans. 

A left, a right, and then Deathstroke was pushing through a set of double-doors. Dick followed him into a room that was nearly as spacious as the first room, but nowhere near as vacant. The walls were lined with weapon racks and training equipment, and gymnastic bars and hurdles extended high into the vaulted ceiling. 

A full third of the floorspace was covered by a practice mat. Deathstroke stepped onto it and turned, but Dick stopped just short of the mat.

So this was it. The costume burning hadn’t been punishment enough, he was going to end up with worse than the bruises and wrenched shoulder socket Deathstroke had already given him and there was nothing he could do about it but fight back again and lose _again_ \--if he would even be allowed to resist. 

Dick had spent as much of the past eight hours in silence as he could get away with, not trusting his voice not to crack under...everything, and his voice had a tendency to crack anyway these days so he wasn’t about to take any chances. But now he was mad. He shot Deathstroke a glare. “If you’re about to teach me the same lesson you taught me the last five times you kicked me around, I should warn you that it’s getting old, fast.”

Deathstroke chuckled, and Dick’s hackles rose uneasily.

“If you think you’ve learned something, come here.”

Stubbornly, Dick just glared. 

Deathstroke crossed his arms. “That was not a request, boy. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Dick’s glare didn’t waver through the tense heartbeats that passed before he stepped onto the mat. “What is this, then?”

“A lesson,” Deathstroke answered. He beckoned to him. “Come at me.”

Dick narrowed his eyes. He had nothing to gain from a fight he already knew he would lose. But he was more familiar with Deathstroke’s combat style than before, and maybe, just maybe, he could hurt him _first_.

He leapt at Deathstroke with a feinted kick. The man sidestepped and Dick wheeled, dropping back on his hands and springing at him from a new angle. Deathstroke evaded again. He made a grab for Dick’s ankle, and despite his sharp twist out of Deathstroke’s reach, the man’s glove grazed him. 

His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but he didn’t give Deathstroke time to breathe before he was ducking to the man’s blind side to drive his heel into the side of his right knee. 

He was braced for cartilage and bone to give under the impact, if only slightly, so when his target area jerked up almost too rapidly for his eyes to register, his leg kept moving. For that fraction of an instant he was off balance, and sinking dread registered in his brain just as Deathstroke brought his knee back down, driving Dick’s leg down underneath.

Trapped under the crushing weight, it took everything just to keep from crying out. He needed to act fast, before the man had a chance to pin him completely. He swung his upper body sideways to reach behind for the arm that he knew would be coming down. If luck was on his side, a good hold and a yank would let him unbalance Deathstroke and throw him forward. 

As luck would have it, he grasped air and Deathstroke caught his wrist, twisted, and pressed _down_. 

Dick let out a strangled gasp of pain. His screaming joints were a hair short of snapping, the rest of Deathstroke’s weight pressed down squarely on the small of his back, and it was over. 

Again.

“So,” Deathstroke said at last. “what did we get out of that lesson?”

Dick forced himself to speak through teeth gritted together from the pain. “Get...the hell...off of me.”

“Wrong answer.” Deathstroke pressed down harder, and Dick bit down on his lip with the effort it took not to scream. “What you _should_ have learned by now is that your ‘father’ committed any teacher’s greatest betrayal: he abandoned you and sent you out against the wolves half-trained at best. Jury’s still out on whether that was actually due to incompetence. He might have just wanted an excuse to move on to the younger, less opinionated model.”

“You...have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dick hissed through clenched teeth.

“I know more than you think,” Deathstroke countered easily. “I know that he replaced you. I know that you spent the past year trying to be him and failing miserably. And I know that your own mistakes have left you completely alone.”

Dick tried not to listen. Tears of pain were blurring his vision, as well as spots of dizziness. He tried and failed to blink them away.

“You can’t be him, kid,” Deathstroke was saying, a deadly seriousness entering his voice, “but I will make you _better_. You have my word on that.”

“Why,” Dick half-choked. “Just...just why...does it have to be...me.”

After a beat, Deathstroke sighed, and in an instant the man’s weight left his back. Dick’s arm flopped down lifeless at his side and he scrambled sideways to put a cautious distance between them. His body was still wracked with pain even though he could tell that his arm was neither dislocated or broken.

Deathstroke loomed over him with his arms crossed over his chest. He had never seemed taller.

“Do you remember the Ravager?” he asked.

At that name Dick went very still; his gaze pulled down, away from Deathstroke’s face. “The HIVE sent him after us the week the Titans re-formed,” he said quietly.

“Yes,” Deathstroke said, softly. “And what happened next?”

Haltingly, Dick staggered to his feet, still gripping his arm. “He...something about the fight drained him, he just...collapsed, and,” he swallowed, and the look he turned upward was brimming with questions he didn’t dare ask, “and then you were there.”

_You pushed past us and held Ravager as he withered; your shoulders were shaking; you turned your back on us as you carried him away and we just let you go._

Deathstroke nodded slowly. “Yes. And then he _died_.”

The words were hard, clipped, but still softly spoken. A cautious shiver ran down Dick’s spine. “Who was he to you?” he asked, as though the grief he’d witnessed wasn’t so familiar now that just the memory was like a stab in the gut, but Deathstroke didn’t speak. Instead, he reached behind his head, gripped his mask, and pulled it over his head.

Dick very nearly flinched.

The man under the mask gazed down at Dick with his one good eye, a familiar glacial blue, while an eyepatch covered the other. His brows, knit tightly together, were the same silver-white shade as his hair and close-cropped beard.

“My name is Slade Wilson,” he said at last. “Grant was my son.”

Familiar guilt welled up at the back of Dick’s throat. It had been his fault alone when Starfire’s attacks had escalated to borderline lethal. Kory couldn’t have known how the young man’s powers would react to the strain of evading her, but as team leader it was Robin’s responsibility to anticipate it--to prevent it...

And now he was endangering his friends because of his failure to do so.

“What happened to Ravager...it...” _was all my fault, I wanted to go to his funeral but I didn’t even know his name and it’s been haunting me for months,_ “it was an accident. I...didn’t realize--” 

Deathstroke cut him off with a harsh gesture. “--I don’t care, Robin. The fact remains that my son is dead.” 

His gaze fell to the mask still in his grip. He lifted it, almost cradling it as his gloved fingers rubbed pensive circles across the black and orange fabric. 

“Grant had always wanted to be me,” he murmured. “He left his mother brimming over with ambition and naivete, and the HIVE found him first. They injected him with a faulty serum deceptively similar to my own, and then,” his tone crystallized into ice, sharp and brittle, “they sent him to _you_. Whatever your intentions, however selfish, oblivious, or hypocritically noble, you acted as his executioners.”

He tossed the mask aside. “So, Robin,” he continued, more lightly, “Your Titans took my son from me, and I simply took something in return. Call it a trade.”

“But the HIVE--” Dick protested.

“Oh, I fully intend to make the HIVE pay for what they’ve done, but now I have you to help me, don’t I?” A small, hard smile formed on Deathstroke’s--no, Dick corrected himself-- _Slade Wilson’s_ face. “Now, before we move forward there’s something we should finish. Let’s talk about your name.”

. . .

_“You’re named after an earth bird,” Kory said, tilting her head to look at him curiously. Her long mane of russet curls shifted over her shoulders like a cloak. “Why?”_

. . .

He should have expected this, Dick realized with gnawing apprehension. He should have expected it, and braced for it from the start.

Slade continued. 

“If I left the choice to you, you’d probably choose something like ‘Red X’, and seeing as that’s only the second most ridiculous code name you’ve ever thought up, I think I’ll do the honors.”

. . .

_“There’s my little bird!” His mother scooped him up in her arms as he giggled helplessly, and she gave him the brightest, warmest smile he would ever see. “My little robin.”_

. . .

He gritted his teeth, and felt his own fingers digging painfully into his twisted arm. Slade wasn’t the first to try to take Robin away from him. And if he hadn’t listened to Batman then Deathstroke’s attempt should mean even less. 

“Ravager would be ironic, but,” Slade rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “... _Renegade_. That sounds about right. What do you think?”

. . .

_“It was for my mom. At first, anyway,” Dick answered after a moment of studying the tv remote in his hands._

_He glanced, a little shyly, over at Kory’s warm expression. She hadn’t even hesitated before cuddling up beside him on the rec room couch, despite the others rolling their eyes and leaving them plenty of room to spare. It had been a long, long time since he had experienced that kind of reciprocated closeness. It was...nice._

_“When I was little she liked to call me Robin,” he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear. “And because of what happened to my parents, and why...using that name reminds me of why I do what I do, and of the people I’m doing it for. I need to be reminded, sometimes.”_

. . .

It _should_ mean less.

Dick pressed his lips together tightly. Slade could call him whatever he liked.

It shouldn’t matter.

“Renegade it is then.”

. . .

_“You survived because you were lucky,” Bruce spat out, his face twisting into something unrecognizable. “This is ending now--and no excuses. If you ever cared for Jason at all you wouldn’t still be wearing his colors.”_

_“Don’t you_ dare _start this now,” Dick choked out, fighting the burning in his throat, behind his eyes, “Not after--”_

_“I did not come here to debate this, Dick. When Jason died he took Robin with him, and_ you _gave up the title when you abandoned Gotham.”_

. . .

This shouldn’t feel so final--so permanent. But for longer than he’d care to admit, Dick had wondered if maybe...just maybe...Bruce had been right.

“You’re done for tonight,” Slade was saying. “Your room is down the hall to the left--door number eight. Oh, and Renegade?” Dick had already half-turned to the door; at the title that wasn’t his, his every muscle locked in place. “Next time I give you an order, I’ll expect to hear ‘ _yes sir_ ’.”


	2. Indentured

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading--and again, all comments are appreciated! (FYI, the 'laughing contest' at the beginning is actually canon. [Here's the comic panel](https://chief-of-restless-hearts.tumblr.com/post/190634289663/friendly-reminder-that-as-a-kid-dick-grayson-once)) 
> 
> Warning for some violence at the end. Keep the work tags in mind.

_“HA,” Robin crowed, with one fist planted firmly on his hip while the other pointed down at his conquered foe. “HA HA HA!”_

_“Heh...” Joker whined from the floor, on his back, grinning blankly at the ceiling, “hh...”_

_Batman, tied onto the conveyor belt that would have fed him feet-first into the chomping jaws of a giant set of fake teeth, was staring with what Dick hoped was approval. Winning a laughing contest on a bet to save your partner wasn’t as effortless as he made it look._

_“Robin the boy wonder, that laughing daredevil, reigns as champion! Y’see, pasty, a_ real _clown mighta actually given me a run for my money, but y--” He broke off into a hacking cough and staggered over to untie Bruce. “Ack, B,” he wheezed, “'m done now.”_

. . .

_“You shoulda seen it Alfie, Joker was all like, ‘bet you can’t dodge bullets, boy blunder’, an’ then I went, ‘well I bet you can’t out-laugh me you pasty faker,’ and the--” he coughed, breaking off with a grimace. The cookie, warm butterscotch--one of his favorites, stuck dry in his raw throat. He choked it down anyway._

_Bruce was still ignoring the tray Alfred had laid out by the batcomputer. Still ignoring both of them. Dick leaned closer to Alfred. “I think you should check B for a concussion,” he stage whispered. “I saved his neck using nothin’ but wit an’ derring-do and I’m still waitin’ on my thank you.”_

_“Perhaps he is tired, Master Dick, as you both should be at this unconscionably_ early _hour.” Alfred directed a heated glance at Bruce’s still-turned back._

_Dick rolled his eyes and wobbled toward the showers, letting the disappointment roll off his shoulders as he unclipped his cape._

_“Dick. Listen to me.” Interrupted mid-yawn, Dick turned to see Bruce standing and taking a step closer; his unmasked face looked hard and stern. “Do not_ ever _, under any circumstance, place your life on the line for mine again.”_

_Dick’s laugh came out as sharp and painful as the confused sting of hurt in his chest. “Gee, you’re welcome, B.”_

_“The same applies for any hostage,” Bruce continued, unfazed._

_Dick’s brow furrowed incredulously. “But just last week you--”_

_“_ Listen! _” Bruce barked. Dick blinked; Bruce never raised his voice at him--but Bruce’s expression, though strained and intense, didn’t even look angry. “Your life is not a bargaining chip,” he continued, his tone lower but still wire-tight. “In any crisis situation you are to get away as fast as possible, and if you can’t do that I want you to buy time for me to reach you.”_

_The finality and command ingrained in Bruce’s tone enraged him as rapidly as it always did._

_“Wha--what are you even--” he broke off furiously. “Bruce, are you seriously asking me to walk away and leave you to die? Let anyone die?” His voice, high and hoarse and_ furious _, cracked against his will; Bruce was approaching, about to shut him down, and Dick shook his head fiercely. “Cuz ‘m not gonna let you die. I’m not--”_

_His throat gave out, broke into coughing from deep in his chest, and he groaned, shaking his head again, not looking at Bruce. “...‘m not,” he choked._

_Bruce was crouching before him, saying nothing. Dick couldn’t have said more if he’d wanted to._

_“Alfred,” Bruce said quietly._

_“I’ll prepare the young master some tea and honey,” Alfred replied, equally subdued. Dick had forgotten he was there._

_Dick felt Bruce’s eyes lingering on him, studying, but Dick still couldn’t meet his gaze. “It’s late,” Bruce said at last. “Do you have homework, or...” He trailed off. Maybe his internal clock was kicking in too._

_“School’s in like, three hours,” Dick mumbled, shrugging, and suddenly his eyes felt heavy. “Don’t think homework’s gonna be the issue.”_

_“This has been happening far too frequently of late,” Alfred said, with that disapproving tone in his voice again. “I am frankly shocked that his grades have not yet suffered.”_

_“I can handle it,” Dick croaked earnestly, “I can sleep later, it’s fine.”_

_“We will...discuss your patrol schedule,” Bruce said, haltingly, his expression pinched strangely as though he were hurt, but Dick had checked him over on the way back to the batmobile and he’d seemed fine-- “But not now,” he continued, and reached out to gently squeeze Dick’s shoulder. “You should get to bed.”_

_Swallowing the dread that was losing Robin, his only way of really doing anything worthwhile and the most time he ever got to spend with Bruce, Dick turned back to the showers. He’d have more fight in him later, but...just now he felt more tired than he’d ever been._

_“Dick,” Bruce said. Dick didn’t turn this time. “I’ll meet you and Alfred upstairs in a minute. I could use some of that tea, too.”_

_Dick hesitated, but as he headed on to the showers the weight in his chest lightened just a little, and when at last he was upstairs on the sitting room couch with a hot mug cradled between his pajama clad legs and chest, Bruce was beside him, staring at yesterday’s half-finished chess game as though it held the answer to every question in the universe. The windows were pale, Dick still hadn’t slept, and he took another long hot sip of the drink and closed his eyes as it slid down his aching throat._

_“I...need you to understand, Dick,” Bruce said, after some thirty minutes of honeyed tea silence. His tone, low and grave, told Dick what he was about to say. Dick raised his mug to disguise his scowl. Bruce cleared his throat, and now he was looking at him. “My life will never be worth the sacrifice of yours. And if...I ever allowed you to bring harm to yourself, I--” he broke off, covering his mouth, and as Dick saw the pinched look returning around Bruce’s eyes his anger slipped away. “You’re my responsibility,” Bruce said, his voice as rough as Dick’s. “If anything happened to you...”_

You don’t get it _, Dick didn’t say,_ what’s the point of me going out there to watch your back and make a difference if I can’t give it my all.

_“Patrol’s gonna be a lot quieter without me,” he mumbled into his mug._

_Bruce paused, and then his mug settled on the coffee table with a decisive clink. “Then we’ll work on making the upstairs louder. Starting tomorrow. You’ve earned a sick day or two--after all, it’s not every day that someone manages to take the Joker down without a single blow.”_

_A broad, toothy grin stretched across Dick’s face, and as Bruce met his gaze the barest hint of a smile formed on his face too. “If your teachers ask we’ll just say you have a frog in your throat.”_

_Dick laughed, quiet and sore but from deep in his stomach, and leaned into the sturdy warmth of Bruce’s arm. Golden light trickled in through the tall windows to join the light from the flickering hearth, and at last he let his eyes fall closed._

. . .

The clicking latch was enough. Dick snapped awake and had already flipped backward into a defensive stance on the bed when the door opened. He took in Deathstro--no, _‘Slade’s’_ silhouette in the doorway, with his heart thumping in his ears. 

Slade was in costume, but unmasked. “Get dressed and meet me in the kitchen down the hall,” he said.

And he left.

Dick stared blankly at the empty doorway for a moment before collapsing back on the bed with a groan. It was embarrassing to have fallen asleep and left himself vulnerable in enemy territory, but already his aching body told him that he hadn’t slept anywhere near long enough to recover from the day before.

He had spent most of the night staring at the camera built into the opposite wall. Slade hadn’t even bothered disguising it. The room was little more than a frigid cell with bare whitewashed halls, unfurnished beyond the camera and the bed he lay on--though there was a door that led to an even tinier adjoining bathroom.

The bathroom contained a shower stall, a toilet, and a sink. It was not equipped with a lock.

The door to the hall was equipped with one...from the outside. Slade hadn’t locked it.

Dick wouldn’t have expected that to make him feel less safe.

He couldn’t remember much of his nightmare, but he did remember Kory’s face, and the way she had looked at him when he--

Dick pressed his icy hands over his face and waited for his breathing to slow. He would...make it up to her. Just as soon as he got out. 

He still owed her a movie night. It wasn’t going to be a date, just a movie--but she’d never been to one before, and after the whole Red X mess he had owed it to her--he had _promised_ it to her, and...they would miss the showing if he didn’t get out soon. Of course _that_ was assuming that she wouldn’t still hate him even after he explained everything. He wouldn’t blame her if she did--he couldn’t, not after what he’d done to her, both before and after what Slade had made him do, but...

it couldn’t end like this. 

He wouldn’t let it.

Shrill beeping sent him jumping out of his skin again. It was coming from what looked like a comm build into the wall beside his bed--an alarm, then. It continued screeching into his ears as he, very bitterly, rolled out of bed. 

. . .

He found Slade leaning against the kitchen counter, unmasked but still in costume with coffee in one hand and a clipboard in the other. Dick halted in the doorway and waited there stiffly until Slade’s gaze fixed on him. 

“If you managed to get lost in a hall lined with locked doors, that is pretty impressive,” Slade said. He paused before taking a sip from his mug, and arched an eyebrow at him. “And in case you missed any, I _did_ lock all of them.”

Dick only glared at him.

He had taken his time going down the hall, counting the cameras and defiantly staring into each of them as he tried every door in turn. And they _had_ all been locked, including the unmarked door to the main room. 

“Eat,” Slade said more brusquely, and tossed a small clipboard onto the counter island between them, beside the plate of food that Dick had been making a concentrated effort not to look at. “You’ll make up for the wasted time later.” 

Eyeing the food hungrily but suspiciously, Dick didn’t even approach the table. Slade snorted impatiently. “If I wanted to drug you I wouldn’t use your food to do it. Eat now or go hungry.”

Dick hadn’t eaten since the previous morning, and was starved enough to risk taking Slade at his word. He held a distrustful eye on Slade as he gulped down the chokingly strong coffee and protein-rich but bland food that Slade apparently considered a breakfast.

Slade began describing the contents of the clipboard that Dick had yet to look at. Slade was outlining the day’s regimen of workouts and training down to the last minute of the day...and talked as though he were introducing Dick to the new norm, his new life.

Dick’s appetite dried up completely (but still, somehow, left his gnawing hunger completely intact).

But he had no reason to start thinking so fatalistically. Even if he didn’t find his own way out of this mess, the Titans or Batman would figure everything out before Slade took things too far. Not that Dick intended to wait around for them to clean up his mess. 

Bruce didn’t need to hear about this.

If Dick was going to see him again--and now, suddenly and forcefully, he _wanted_ to--he didn’t want to go through the humiliation of seeing Bruce proven right. What happened to Jay was...it wasn’t going to happen again. And he didn’t need Bruce to protect him.

He chewed robotically, kept his eye on Slade and maintained the appearance of listening, but his mind was already wandering the mental map of the base that he was trying to assemble. So far he had counted two possible escape routes. The front way (obviously), and the oversized fan he’d glimpsed stars through the night before during that little game of hide and seek with Slade on the gears. But his search wasn’t finished. A place this large had to have multiple vents leading to the surface. It was just a matter of finding them, and he had time, even if he did want nothing more than to get as far away from Slade as possible.

But he needed to do something first. He needed to undo all the damage he had done, all the ways that he had betrayed some of the best friends he’d ever had.

. . .

“I don’t know about you, but I am totally capable of subduing someone without crushing their windpipe.” Dick was still poised before the training dummy, gripping the staff with both sweat-slick palms and trying to ignore the fatigue tremors working their way through his body.

But he had made the grave error of turning his back on Slade, who was just behind his shoulder--and _moving_. Dick wheeled only for Slade to grab him by the shoulders and steer him toward the dummy again.

“For me that won’t be enough. Resume your position.”

Dick shifted his grip on the staff and stiffly resumed his stance.

“No,” Slade said curtly. He reached over Dick’s shoulder to grab his forearm. Dick jerked violently in the hold, which only tightened. “You are going to enter the proper offensive stance,” Slade said, his voice dripping condescension.

“I don’t need to--”

“Twelve point five million dollars...” Slade said slowly, deliberately. “That was the offer from the HIVE that I refused in favor of sparing the Titans, and that is what you owe me. I really am asking very little in return.” Slade’s hands moved to adjust Dick’s rigid grip on the staff. This time, Dick let him. “Now, this time complete the maneuver correctly.” 

Cold spread from Dick’s heart to his fingertips.

The price placed on his friends’ lives was, somehow, at the same time too much and far too little.

He jabbed the end of his staff under the dummy’s chin in a sharp, sudden strike. The neck snapped in two, the detached head toppling to the floor with a single morbid bounce.

“Adequate,” Slade said, then added, “for a self-taught amateur.”

Dick went very still. Slade should have had no way of knowing that. 

Slade was moving away, and Dick risked a look at his face while the blind side was facing him. But his expression appeared perfectly neutral, and in the few (but still too many) hours that Dick had known Slade he had grown no better at reading him.

“Now,” Slade continued, and he touched his own throat just above the armored plate. “Strike me here with that same maneuver. Just that one, no improvisation--but try to hit me.”

After an uncertain beat, Dick struck out. Slade edged sideways just before the staff would have touched him, but he was frowning. “Again,” he instructed, and Dick did. But something inside him twisted with every lunge. By the fourth time he realized what he was doing just as Slade grabbed the staff mid-strike.

“You’re faltering,” he snapped. “Try again, and this time _try to hit me_. Hold back again and I _will_ show you what those attacks should look like firsthand.”

A flush spread across Dick’s face, but he moved again. Just as he had before, Slade evaded effortlessly--but by a much narrower margin. Dick hadn’t even realized that he had been tilting his strikes off-center at the last instant, and his cheeks stung with embarrassment. He had been holding back from hurting Deathstroke.

 _Deathstroke_.

“Better,” Slade said, but had him continue anyway.

Again, and again, and again.

But Slade should _not_ have known about that.

. . .

Dick couldn’t stop thinking about the attack on Wayne Tower.

Slade had known about his staff training, and he _shouldn’t_ have, and if he knew about that, he hadn’t just been spying on Titans Tower where Robin had taken to keeping his mask on even around his new teammates. The possibilities were ugly. All of them.

His hands and knees were on the mat, one arm cradling his chest as he gasped for breath and tried uselessly to get his focus back. He was nowhere near in the headspace for combat training, but what only made it worse was that Slade was holding back. Those hits, if thrown with the full force that Slade had given him before, would have laid him out flat and likely crushed his ribs.

\--But Dick had told Slade he already had a father and then Slade had sent him to sabotage _Wayne Tower_. Dick was supposed to be a detective. What was he supposed to deduce from that? And if he was right, if Slade _knew_ , then even if Slade didn’t take advantage of the opportunity to take out his current most dangerous opponent he could just as easily destroy Batman’s crusade for good. That would prove a deathblow for Gotham, and if Dick knew Bruce--and he _did_ \--it would be one for him too.

And it would be all Dick’s fault. 

A rod cracked against his ear. He reeled backward in shock, his head ringing from the blow, and his attention snapping back to Slade who was looming over him with staff in hand, masked, but there was no disguising his dark expression. 

“Are you ignoring me, Renegade?”

Dick stared up at him blankly for a moment before it sank in that he had zoned out mid-sparring session. And...had Slade been speaking?

Slade continued staring down at him while Dick scrounged desperately for some kind of excuse that wasn’t an apology, when Slade exhaled and angled his head slightly. “You’ve been quiet.” he said at last. 

Was that a question? As moments ticked by, Dick realized that it was. Hastily he hefted the staff that had been forgotten in his hand and resumed a defensive sparring position. He held it, swallowing anxiously as he waited. 

At last Slade raised his own staff. “Very well,” he said, and lunged at him. 

. . .

Slade straightened, reattached his staff to his belt, dismissed him, and the last training session of the night was over.

Dick turned away and braced himself to keep his weary shoulders squared and his posture straight until he reached the room he never would have expected to actually want to return to. But where else was there to go to escape Slade and the constriction around his throat and chest that only barely managed to trap every desperate question behind his teeth.

“Is there something on your mind?” Slade’s voice stopped him in his tracks. 

“No,” Dick said hastily, his eyes only darting to and away from Slade’s.

“Renegade.” The word had an edge to it. A warning.

Dick gritted his teeth and pretended to misunderstand its meaning. “No, ‘s _ir’_.”

The word tasted like acid on his tongue. 

. . .

The alarm woke him with all the subtlety of an electric jolt. Sluggishly, he winced. The noise was weirdly abrasive, and why did the air taste like metal and his bed feel so...

His fingers curled tight around the blanket that wasn’t his and reality slammed into his chest like a hammer. 

He wasn’t in Titans Tower. Wasn’t in the manor. He was buried under layers of lead-lined asphalt in Deathstroke’s secret base, and yesterday was going to happen again and then keep happening, over and over and-- 

No. 

No, it _wouldn’t_. 

He made himself get up, wash, dress into the uniform again, and as he made his way down to the kitchen he tried his best not to think too deeply about the spirit gum that he had found conveniently left on the sink to use for his mask.

. . .

Dick pivoted midair and caught the bar again as he fell, letting the swing of his own weight carry him up into the air again.

The bars were icy in his grip, not too different from the bars he’d spent half his life practicing on. They helped enhance the illusion, if he closed his eyes and pretended that he was surrounded by the damp but comfortable recesses of the batcave.

Slade would still be watching him from below, but Dick wanted to close his eyes and forget that. He didn’t need to look to catch the next bar and then let it carry him up again into a double somersault.

“Are you planning to spend the day up there, Renegade?”

Dick flinched, his eyes flying open to see the bar racing up toward him. He grasped out quickly--only barely hooking his fingers around it, the grip too loose to do anything but slow his descent. He tucked and landed in a roll that jarred every bone in his body, but he was still aware enough to snap into alertness as Slade approached him where he was still crouched on the floor.

He scrambled to his feet, but he hadn’t even caught his breath.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you, since you were so clearly enjoying yourself, but that isn’t what you’re here for, is it?”

Dick just stared at Slade’s masked face. He couldn’t read him, not a single inch of him. 

After a prolonged period of silence Slade crossed his arms. “Whatever’s distracting you, you need to be more careful. I wouldn’t have caught you this time.”

Dick scowled at the allusion to their fight the week before. Dick had gotten careless, Deathstroke had landed a blow to his gut that sent him toppling over the edge of the building--and then a hand had caught him by the wrist.

_‘I’m not through with you.’_

And now, of course, Dick knew what that meant.

Swallowing back another wave of dread at the reminder of how long Slade must have been planning for this, Dick turned and reached for the schedule he had left on the nearby desk.

“That’s it? Nothing?” The voice behind him almost sneered. Dick’s hand froze an inch away from the papers. “It used to be impossible to shut you up.”

This time expectancy hung stagnant in the air without any disguise of friendliness. And Dick couldn’t have held it in a single moment longer.

“Do you know who I am?” he burst out. Slade surveyed him for a moment, and Dick rephrased the question, this time trying to suppress the urgency in his tone. “Do you...know my civilian name.”

Slade laughed. Dick flinched at the short, harsh sound. “Kid, you have _more_ than enough to worry about without wasting time worrying about your former mentor’s secrets.”

Dick nearly yelled the question at him again, and just barely bit it back. But the anger was working its way into his face. It was burning, twisting into something ugly, and he barely wheeled away in time to hide it.

“Renegade!” A heavy hand clapped over his shoulder and Slade’s voice dropped to a growl. “You _do not_ walk away when I am speaking to you.”

Dick whirled and ripped Slade’s hand away. “You’re a monster, you know that?” he snarled at Slade’s face, and when the visible eye narrowed he didn’t stop. “You’re doing the same thing to the Titans that you always do, you do the same thing again and again and--you can’t just put price tags on people’s lives. You _can’t_!”

He stopped, and he was nearly shaking with rage. Slade’s face was still twisted under the mask, but the reaction Dick was braced for never came.

“Maybe not,” Slade said lowly, with steel backing each measured word. “But I’ll take what I can get.”

Dick was about to snap back, but Slade was looking at him. And then, suddenly, Slade’s meaning clicked in his mind. Dick remembered, and he went very still.

Slade turned away. 

“Isn’t there somewhere you need to be?” His voice was deadly quiet. Dick stared at Slade’s back, hesitating, cold to the bone. “Go,” Slade hissed.

Finally, Dick turned to leave. Lunch break had been listed next on the schedule. 

“Renegade.” Dick halted. Slade had spoken without turning, his voice flatter than before. “Remember that debt.”

. . .

A horrifically vivid image of Bruce collapsing, his skin pulsing with lethal nanotech, sliced viciously through Dick’s mind. He lurched to a stop halfway down the hall, leaning against the wall with still-tacky paint that peeled away in places all over the base to reveal plates of lead-- _lead_ , and if Slade knew enough to repel Superman, what did he have waiting for Batman-- _and breathe, and breathe_.

He needed to move quickly. Because he couldn’t run and he couldn’t afford to wait for a rescue that might never come. Couldn’t count on them discovering the probes and saving themselves, because apparently he had some kind of stupid talent for endangering the lives of everyone he’d ever touched and he was _not_ about to let Slade take Batman down too.

Bruce would be angry when he found out, but Dick had already gone and played himself as a bargaining chip and all those promises Bruce had Dick make all those years ago--that was just Bruce being an idiot. He always acted like his own life was expendable, like seeing him get hurt didn’t tear Dick apart. Maybe he had been Bruce’s responsibility once upon a time, but Batman was still Robin’s responsibility and he always would be. Maybe, someday, Bruce would understand. Dick knew Kory would understand--of all of them she would, because as much as none of them liked to talk about it, she understood what it was like to have your life traded away for the greater good. Willingly or not.

He could fix this in one go. He could act quickly, so suddenly that Slade wouldn’t reach him until it was already done, and then whatever happened next would be worth it. He’d try to run. He probably wouldn’t get far, and he didn’t especially want to die for anyone, but...there were worse things.

What he really wanted was a second chance. He didn’t even want to think about the serious possibility that he might have cried wolf one too many times. He had so much to make up for, to so many, and...there were some things he needed to tell Bruce, too. He’d meant what he told Slade earlier. He did have a father--a living one. And even if Bruce didn’t feel the same...Dick wanted a chance to tell him that.

And that meant that he couldn’t afford to wait on this any longer. 

He just needed to reach the central computer.

. . .

The thundering in his chest drowned out the echoing clank of gears, measuring the precious seconds as they passed. Dick grabbed a fistful of wires under the computer console and slashed through them with the knife he’d managed to smuggle out of the training room in his boot to use as a lockpick. 

The computers from the end of the main room overlaid with the massive display screens were wired directly into the device that triggered the probes. He just needed to penetrate the initial defense system to tap into the system’s inner workings and then he’d be on his own turf, doing a simple job that he’d done a hundred times before. He would short-circuit the devices, rendering them completely harmless just so long as he did this correctly, and carefully…

The screen flickered with static, and as soon as it cleared his eager fingers were racing across the keyboard. 

It took an instant too long to notice that new images had flickered onto the screen. Familiar ones. Layouts that displayed his friends’ vascular systems flooded with the mechanical infection.

At the bottom of each screen pulsed a single word that made his heart drop like a stone into the pit of his stomach: 

_[[Activated]]_

_[[Activated]]_

_[[Activated]]_

_[[Activated]]_

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

Dick whirled to see Deathstroke standing in the doorway. His arms were crossed almost casually, but his gaze through the mask was hard as stone.

Dick glanced desperately at the screen again. At the flashing activation alerts. 

“You seem to have made a mistake, Renegade.” Deathstroke’s eye narrowed to a slit. “Need any help?”

“You need to...stop it,” Dick faltered, eyes darting again between the screen and Deathstroke’s face, “I...it...”

Deathstroke didn’t budge an inch, not in his posture leaning against the doorframe, and not in his gaze that remained unshifting from Dick’s face. 

Deathstroke had known. He had known everything, and suddenly it sank in that he must have expected him to try this from the very beginning. He’d wired the computers with a failsafe to kill the Titans, and now he was waiting for _something_ and Dick had no idea what more he wanted.

“ _Please_ ,” he forced out, the word high and desperate and painfully unnatural, “Just make it stop!”

For an excruciating moment Dick could almost feel his own flesh crawling with the same nanotech that could be eating away at his friends from the inside out while he just stood there doing nothing and it was all his fault he was so _stupid--_

Deathstroke was pushing away from the door to approach the computer. 

“I suppose,” he said dryly, typing rapidly until the pulsing lights faded to blank screens, “that there are other ways to deal with you.”

Dick was hemmed into the dusty corner beside the computer, with only Deathstroke standing between him and the broad space where he would have a fighting chance at running.

The instant Deathstroke’s fingers stilled over the keyboard, he bolted.

Deathstroke whipped around, sweeping out a leg that grazed Dick’s shins as he leapt back out of range. The evasion forced him to give ground and then sheer survival instinct consigned his entire being to blocking, dodging, and evading even while knowing that he was being herded ever further back into the corner. 

He needed more space to avoid those lightning-quick reflexes that kept pace with his speed in a way that Batman never had--space that he didn’t have--and his resistance, restricted to the defensive by Deathstroke’s rapid-fire attacks, bought him less than a minute. He fell for a feint and Deathstroke’s grip closed around his wrist, twisted, and threw him. 

The wall slammed into his back. It might have forced his lungs up his throat for the way his chest constricted. He gaped uselessly for air he couldn’t take in until the tightness receded into all-encompassing burning in...his _ribs_...

“Honestly,” Deathstroke’s voice was saying, and approaching, “how far did you think you would _get_. This place is as rigged over as you are.”

He wheezed, and couldn’t breathe--and his spotty vision cleared only just in time to raise his arms to absorb the brunt of Deathstroke’s kick. He had barely managed his first fresh breath before the next blow came--a fist to the gut that knocked the air out all over again. He barely felt the blow to his jaw that followed. 

A knee rammed into his middle, and that was it, he was gagging, on his side, his entire body convulsing helplessly. Blood coated his teeth, his tongue, bubbling over his lips, claws were digging into his chest and _he couldn’t breathe_.

“So, Renegade,” Deathstroke was bending down; Dick wanted to move, his fingers twitched instead, “you don’t want this apprenticeship?” Fingers curled over his chest, twisting around kevlar till it ripped, dragging him off the floor; his eyes cracked open and Deathstroke’s mask was an inch from his face, twisted with undisguisable fury. “Well,” he hissed, “ _I want my son back_. So it sounds like neither of us are about to get what we want.”

Deathstroke was straightening. He was hauling Dick toward the open doorway, Dick’s feet were skidding uselessly under him, and his eyes widened with alarmed realization. Grabbing Deathstroke’s wrist with both hands he struggled against the clamped iron fingers--and then Deathstroke let go. 

Dick’s back slammed into the floor. He gagged a desperate, garbled cough, blinking at new stars spotting the shadowed ceiling. And then Deathstroke was grabbing his ankle. Pulling. He was being dragged.

Just aware enough to be alarmed, he flailed weakly in an attempt to right himself. Deathstroke just gave his ankle a yank that sent him flopping back down again. Cement dragged against his ribs, left them screaming with searing pain; he tried twisting sideways off the floor. Dizzying exhaustion dropped him before Deathstroke could do it himself. Blinking through swimming vision, he barely recognized his own door before Deathstroke yanked him through the opening.

The vicious motion might as well have broken his ribs all over again from the way the breath stole out of him. His teeth were clenched so tightly he thought they might break too. 

He turned his head slightly, just enough to glimpse Deathstroke’s silhouette towering in the doorway. 

“Enjoy the quiet,” it said, and the slamming door’s impact against the doorframe echoed across the floor and his ribs. The room drowned in complete darkness, and a soft click told him that the room would remain in that state indefinitely. 

Slowly, he rolled onto his side, gritting his teeth to hold back the keen building up in the back of his throat. He touched his mask to activate night vision, and let his arm slump back onto the floor. 

For now, there was no point in moving. He could just...rest here. Close his eyes, and try to choke down the acidic cocktail of blood, bile, and shame that coated his throat and gripped it like a vise. 


	3. Oaths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone who's commented. You're awesome.
> 
> I'll give a content warning for isolation, starvation, and some...mild hallucinations.

Only in the sensible blackness did he remember that he couldn’t have run. It would have killed them. Slade might not even have chased him if he escaped the base. He might have let him run, and then let him return to the Tower to find four dead friends. 

Dick drifted in and out of consciousness, losing count of the slow, bleary hours.

Time crawled without any way of measuring it, but the next time he stirred awake his stomach was pinched and complaining. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, his mouth was sandpaper dry, and his head felt stuffed full of throbbing wads of cotton. 

He needed to get into the bathroom, for the water, to smear the cold wetness over his face until the crusting blood washed away, to gulp it down until it cleared his throat and his head. 

But he felt so heavy, and he didn’t need to do that just yet.

He could wait...

and let his eyelids fall closed...just one more time...

. . .

The next time his dry eyes drifted open, he forced himself to move. It wasn’t quite as painful as the night before, but as he pushed up onto all fours he had to stop and wait for a cold shadow of dizziness to pass before rising the rest of the way and making his way haltingly over to the door that he knew would be locked. He checked it anyway.

He pressed his forehead against what was _definitely_ a locked door and waited for the room to stop turning before making his way to the little bathroom. 

Everything seemed gray through the mask lenses’ artificial light, and the mirror seemed almost black--save for the glowing white eyes that stared back at him. That at least was a relief. He pulled his gloves off with clumsy fingers, twisted the faucet, and plunged his face under the icy stream, gulping it down until his stomach threatened to send it all up again. Only then did he scrub away the flakes of blood caked along his left jaw and cheek, and pry his mask away from his face just far enough to splash water against his still hot, dry eyes. Knowing Deathstroke, he could be watching even now, even in the dark. 

He braced his forearms against the porcelain sink, the water only just beginning to cut the weight of exhaustion away.

It was sinking in that for the first time since this ‘apprenticeship’ began, he didn’t have his hours dictated to him. With that door locked, he didn’t have to go out, listen to Slade, obey Slade, and pretend to not care. In theory, he could now do whatever he wanted. 

In _theory._

His room was bare, without even an assignment to distract from the dim silence. But at least it was better than having to look Slade in the eye after...that.

He took another chest-stabbing breath, willing himself to relax, and it was in that silence that his memory conjured up Slade’s voice as clearly as if it had been spoken into his ear. 

_“It’s as rigged over as you are.”_

With ragged, painful motions he stripped off the top of his uniform and flung it onto the floor before starting on the pants. When he wore only his undershirt and shorts he sank down against the edge of the shower base. The underground labyrinth was as chilly as ever, and he rubbed his fingers briskly over his bare arms. He could tolerate the cold if it meant Slade didn’t get to read his system like a book. 

But there was a blanket on the cot. He made his way across the room and settled under the blanket in the position that hurt his ribs the least.

It really was quiet, wasn’t it? He could hear his own breathing and the low steady thud in his chest, but beyond that the room was as soundless as a sealed tomb. Though he knew better than to think that Slade would keep him in there long enough for it to become a literal one, Dick began psychologically steeling himself for what could be a hungry few days. If necessary he could slow his breathing and heartbeat to essentially hibernate through the empty hours, but until then, all he really wanted to do was sleep.

. . .

He managed to ruffle Jason’s mop of coarse black curls before the kid ducked away with a growl of protest. Laughing, Dick dropped down beside Jason on the edge of the tower roof. The kid scooted away to put a full three feet between them.

Despite the mere two years between them in age, Jason stood a full head below Dick in stature. The teasing over that had stopped after Bruce explained that it was due to childhood malnutrition. 

Jay scowled down at the trees surrounding Titans’ tower, but his lips were twitching treacherously. 

With a renewed grin, Dick leaned forward just enough to catch his eye. “You know, we could do this more often if you’d just come over to the Tower. It was fun today, wasn’t it? Being part of the team?”

Jason’s masked gaze shifted away from him. “He doesn’t let me go out alone.”

Dick’s grin slipped. “Oh.”

He watched Jason fiddle idly with the corner of his cape; it was the same butter yellow that his had been before his work with the Titans had driven him to make a few alterations to his Robin costume. It still felt strange seeing his colors on someone else, even if he had grown past the discomfort. 

Jason was a good kid. It had hardly been his fault when Bruce suddenly decided that his first Robin wasn’t doing the job well enough anymore.

“...But he might if you were in Gotham,” Jason continued suddenly. “If you came I could show you some cool tunnels I found by the docks. He never lets me explore with him, but together we could...” his gaze slanted toward Dick again, and he shrugged, “y’know, have _fun_.”

Dick could hear the barely reined eagerness in his voice.

He should have agreed. He should have gone home. But just the thought of facing Bruce again was enough to shut that option away altogether.

He kicked back against the Tower wall. “I dunno. It’s just that the HIVE called a hit on the team recently, so we’ve got this mercenary to deal with. I’m still working on a plan to draw him out, and...I think I must have mentioned some of that earlier.”

“No. You didn’t.”

“Well, I promise to stop by as soon as I can, li’l wing.”

He reached to ruffle Jay’s hair again, but the boy slapped his hand away and pushed to his feet.

“You know, Bruce said that we’d be brothers,” Jason bit out. “That’s a real joke. It’s been two years and I barely even know you.”

Something gripped Dick’s throat. “Jay--”

"I should get going,” Jason interrupted, not even looking at him. “Bruce and I are planning on going to a Knights’ game tonight. Unless _he’s_ busy too.” 

Jason leapt off the roof, arms spread like a bird as he fell. Dick jolted to his feet, to call after him, to catch him--but below the tower was nothing but a black void, he couldn't see Jason anymore, and all of a sudden, he knew that he wasn’t on the tower. 

He never had been.

Dick’s phone was ringing. But he didn’t have his phone, not anymore. Still, he took it out of his pocket. 

The caller ID said Jason Todd. 

He tried to answer. He couldn’t. 

The ringing finished, transitioning to the answering message.

_“So...hey. It’s been a while, so this is me, calling that number you gave me. You must be busy or something, but I wanted to ask if maybe, when you have time later, we could hang out...or something. So, uh...see ya, I guess.”_

_*Beep*_

The phone was ringing again. Agitatedly, he tried again to answer, futilely jamming his finger into the button repeatedly until the next answering message began.

_“Hey. Last time didn’t work out, I get it, but Bruce and I are going to go up to the cabin in Vermont next week, and he said that I should ask if you’re interested in coming with. If you’re still busy with the Titans...that’s cool. No biggie. Bye.”_

_*Beep*_

Dick’s throat tightened with guilt and foreboding. He nearly screamed in frustration as the ringing resumed, until the message brought Jason’s voice again, this time quieter, more tense. Dick stopped breathing.

_“Dick. I...need to ask you something. Do this for me and I swear I’ll never ask for anything again, but there’s something that I need to do. I can do it alone, but I was wondering if...maybe --Oh hell, nevermind.”_

_*Beep*_

Dick’s heart was hammering in his ears. 

Oh God. Not this. Not again. No.

The ringing came and passed again, uninterrupted.

_“I called, Dick. Before Joker, before I even left the manor. And I’ll bet that Bruce still doesn’t know.”_

This time, the voice came from a shadow he could just make out through the inky black, caped in butter yellow with gleaming white accusing eyes.

The ringing began again and this time--finally--when Dick’s desperate finger slammed on the button, it stopped. He pulled the phone to his ear. 

“Jason?” he asked, breathlessly.

Shrill, manic laughter screamed into his ear, almost but not quite drowning out the gut-lurching crunch of metal slamming into flesh and bone.

He yanked the phone away from his ear, hand slapped over his mouth and fighting back the bile that was pushing up his throat.

Jason’s voice from the shadows, again.

_“‘Brothers’. What a joke.”_

. . .

He jolted awake with Jason’s name in his raw throat. He was on his side facing the wall, a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders, and gradually his true location sank in. He pressed his hands over his eyes and waited for the lingering sensations of the dream to pass. The adrenaline. The tremors.

His sandpaper tongue and twinging abdomen were the only indicators for how long he had slept. It had been too long. He made himself return to the sink for water. Once satisfied, he turned on the shower. 

He jumped back at the sharp hiss of the water, only to flush with embarrassment. He sincerely hoped that Slade hadn’t seen that. 

The water, though tepid as always, still helped soothe the bruising patched across his torso, back, and jaw. The water cut off abruptly after five minutes, and sullenly Dick stepped out and scrubbed the damp out of his hair with the towel on the rack. 

Unable and unwilling to sleep any longer, he dressed and put himself through a series of bends and stretches to gauge how far he could push through the pain.

Far enough, he decided once sweat was pouring from his temples after what should have been a basic warm-up. He would be easy pickings next time Slade decided to teach him a lesson, and that thought brought a prickling of the old anger back. He was sick of being treated like a student, a toy, and a prisoner in turns. It was like the man couldn’t make up his mind.

He sat stiffly against the cot with the silence still ringing in his ears, and waited. Perhaps he should have been using the time to ruminate over a new plan, but for now his mind was a blank. 

He waited, and dozed, and tried not to dream. 

. . .

A clack jolted him back to consciousness and the door swung open to pour blinding white light into his eyes.

He flung his arm across his eyes, hastily deactivating the night-vision lenses, and peered through the fading pain to see a familiar silhouette standing out stark against the doorway. He stood stiffly before Slade had a chance to tell him to and forced himself to glare into the cutting brightness. 

“Get dressed,” said Slade. “I’ll be waiting in the training room.”

“I’m not fighting you like this!” Dick shouted before Slade could leave, hating how his voice cracked at the end. “You’ve already made your point.” 

Slade paused, half-turned in the doorway. Dick glimpsed the man’s profile; he was unmasked. 

“Who said anything about fighting?” Slade asked dryly. “I’m not going to repeat myself, Renegade. Do as you’re told.”

Slade left the door ajar, and Dick stared after him for a few seething moments before snatching his (still torn) uniform off the bathroom floor. When he stepped into the hallway, the floor seemed to sway under him. He braced against the wall just in time. He hadn’t felt this weak for a long, long time. 

He made his way down the seemingly endless hall and entered the gym, half expecting to see Slade waiting on the mat, no matter what he had said. But he wasn’t. He was standing on the right side of the room beside one of the work tables, with something in his hands.

Deathstroke’s sword. Dick recognized it by the elaborate brass hilt as the one Slade always wore strapped across his back. Fending off a twinge of foreboding, Dick approached. 

Slade lifted the naked sword so that it rested across his open palms and then extended it toward Dick, who glanced uncertainly between Slade and the weapon.

“Place your right hand over the blade,” Slade instructed, and waited for Dick to comply. “Now,” he continued smoothly, “I’m going to straighten a few things out for you: You are _my_ apprentice now, not Batman’s. You take orders from me alone. You are no longer a Titan, neither are you a sidekick dressed like a parrot, and you will only continue to make life more difficult for the both of us until you learn to accept that and afford me a little trust.”

Dick’s glare hardened. “You don’t honestly expect me to--”

“Trust will come in its own time, but until then, I want you to learn the weight of your word, once given.”

Suddenly knowing exactly what Slade wanted him to do, Dick tried to pull his hand away from the sword. Slade’s hand clamped over his, pinning it in place. Dick pinched his lips together and tried to think.

“What ‘word’?” he snapped.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

. . .

_“This is the oath you took?”_

_Bruce paused, froze, for just an instant. “We’ll share this vow,” he said at last, and if that wasn’t exactly an answer Dick was far beyond caring. “If there is anything about it you would like to change--”_

_“No.” His fingers trembled over the paper with reverence and anticipation. “It’s perfect,” he whispered._

. . .

With frustration Dick waited for yet another wave of dizziness to pass. 

“So,” Slade prompted. “Do I have your word?”

Dick met his gaze with as much defiance as he could muster. “Those words won’t mean anything. Only one thing is keeping me here, and it isn’t words.”

. . .

_Batman stood over his bed, holding a single candle._

_Dick’s clock read three minutes to midnight. He didn’t even think to change out of his pajamas before bounding after Bruce through the hall, down the stone stairwell, and into the cave that was dimmer than he’d ever seen it. All the way down, the oath worked silently over his lips and then, over a fraying Bible and the light of that single, gleaming candle, he raised his right hand and looked into Batman’s piercing white eyes._

_“I’m ready.”_

. . .

“Maybe you don’t understand the importance of a vow yet, but one day you will,” Slade said. “Now, say it. What is your name?” When Dick stiffened, Slade wryly clarified, “Your _title_.” 

A moment passed, and Dick knew by the shift in Slade’s expression that something in his eyes must have betrayed his answer.

“Robin,” he answered, and the conviction in his voice was the first solid thing he’d felt in days. 

Slade’s hand whipped across his face. 

“I’d rethink that answer if I were you,” Slade hissed. The clamping grip over Dick’s hand returned, this time squeezing until the bones of his hand ground together, dangerously close to snapping. Dick held his cry behind his clenched teeth, refusing to break eye contact. “...Or do you need some more time alone to think it over?”

“My name,” Dick repeated, voice level but dangerously tight, “is _Robin.”_

Without another word the sword ripped out from under his hand, slicing across his palm.

This time Dick didn’t resist as Slade grabbed his upper arm, hauled him down the hall, and flung him like a ragdoll onto the floor of his room. His conviction barely wavered, even as the door slammed shut and locked behind him with a finality that stirred up dread in his gut. 

He took one deep breath, let it out, and took another. He activated his night vision and set about cleaning and wrapping his hand with the med kit under his cot. He could handle this, and it was worth it. While in this room, he couldn’t be Slade’s tool. He couldn’t hurt his friends. He couldn’t steal, or kill, or break any of the vows he had made to Bruce and to himself.

In here, he was buying precious time, time that the Titans or the League or Bruce could use to sort out this mess before it got any worse.

He could handle this.

. . .

He couldn’t sleep. 

He waited, even used the slowed breathing techniques he’d been taught to use in extreme emergency to bring him close to a coma, but the closest he came to sleep was dreams that he flickered in and out of so quickly and so frequently that it was difficult to discern between them. 

“Enough, Jason,” he whispered under his breath. The physical sound touched his ears, pulling him just an inch closer to reality. “I know that I messed up. I should have been your brother, and I should have protected you. I _KNOW.”_

He flinched as his own shout rang shrilly through his skull--and through his ribs, and then he was coughing, uncontrollably even though the pain spiked through him like claws through his chest, the suffocating fluid wasn’t in his throat it was deep inside his chest and no matter how hard he coughed he couldn’t get it out, he couldn’t breathe...

He didn’t know how much time passed before he was laying limp on his side, sucking in shuddering, painful, but hungry breaths. Slowly, his heartbeat stopped thundering against his ribs. 

He should never have left either of them, not the way he had, and the guilt of it clung to the inside of his chest, just as suffocating. But...Bruce had been...different, after Jason came. Suddenly nothing his first Robin did had been good enough for him, Bruce had changed and he still didn’t know why, whether it was Gotham or...or _him_...

Moving into Titans Tower had been his choice, his hot blooded retaliation against Bruce’s passive-aggressive maneuvering, but he had wanted Bruce to make him come back home. Or ask. Anything but the disconnect that happened instead. In the end it had been Alfred who came to see him, bringing only a question of _why_.

Slade wasn’t as wrong as Dick wanted him to be, but Dick hadn’t been the only one abandoned. Because where had Dick been when Bruce needed him, when _Jason_ needed him. And now Jason was six feet under and somehow Dick was buried even deeper, leaving Bruce alone, more alone than he’d been since Dick first met him. 

When it ultimately came down to the question of blame, each time he torturously cycled through it the answer was always, always, _anyone but Jason_.

. . .

How many hours had it been, now? Twenty-four hours? Fifty? 

Had Halloween passed yet?

Gar had been looking forward to trick-or-treating, wasting hours trying to convince Vic and Raven to come with him. Gar had never had the opportunity to go before, and his enthusiasm had blinded him to the realization that Vic would never agree to treat his cybernetic parts like a costume and that Raven would rather drop dead than put on the Batgirl costume he had bought her in a futile attempt at bribery. It probably hadn’t helped that Gar had been planning to go as himself. 

Gar had even bought a Batman costume for Dick...who had been too busy to even consider wearing it. 

At the time, he had been utterly preoccupied with his work--that had largely circulated around Red X. His futile plan to draw Slade’s attention by assuming the identity of a skilled thief. Stupidly, Dick had been following the logic that Deathstroke might seek out a replacement for his former partner, Ravager, the boy Deathstroke had cried over as he died at their feet.

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_.

Not only had Deathstroke been humoring him the entire time, when the Titans ultimately learned the truth they hadn’t understood at all. 

He had made a mistake, he knew that now. But back then, all that wasted time had seemed the most important thing in the world. 

Dick remembered Gar’s crestfallen reaction to his apologetic rejection, and winced. 

Kory had of course embraced Gar’s plans with her usual wholehearted zeal. When Gar had given her the Wonder Woman costume he had picked out for her she had embraced the much shorter boy in a bone-crushing hug and proceeded to join him in pestering their teammates. 

Dick had found it much harder to say no to her cajoling, faced with wide, hopeful green eyes that glimmered with unspoken concern...but he had done it anyway. It was already difficult enough to focus on the mission without her smiles turning him into a distracted, blushing mess. 

Though a selfish part of him wanted his team’s first priority to be getting to the bottom of this charade...he did hope that Gar and Kory had still gone trick-or-treating.

Right now he wanted nothing more than to get back home to the Tower and apologize to all of them for being such an ass for at least the past month...but first he would need to get out. 

He _would_ get out. Of course he would get out. 

_Any time now would be good_ , he thought earnestly, with just a hint of panic as once again the walls pressed down on him from all sides, as though by sheer force of will he might get Raven to hear him.

A voice whispered back, but it wasn’t Raven’s. 

_“No one ever comes, Dick. No one.”_

Dick pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and pressed his forearms against his ears. “ _Please,_ shut up,” he whispered. “ _Please_.”

. . .

The crack of an opening door and the immediate onslaught of piercing brightness flooded his senses again before Slade’s hulking silhouette cut between him and the light. 

Slade grabbed and hauled him upright and then out the door without speaking a word. Dick tripped over his own feet more than once, a blinding bout of dizziness nearly dropping him, but Slade’s iron hold on his arm kept pulling him along. His feet were a little more steady under him by the time they finally reached the gym. 

He smelled the food on the worktable before he saw it, and the aroma curdled a confused mixture of nausea and desperation in his smarting stomach. He glimpsed sweet potatoes and stewed oats before forcing himself to look away. 

Slade, masked this time, halted exactly where they had stood before. He reached over his shoulder, drew his sword from its sheath, and then slapped Dick’s bandaged hand down on the blade. Slade stared down at him until Dick forced his dry eyes upward. 

He was so tired. He saw a chair behind Slade at the table, and wanted nothing more than to slump down into it, already drained by the brief walk from his room.

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” Slade said coldly. “What is your name?” 

Dick said nothing, his teeth clamped tightly shut. He wanted this over with. He wanted Slade to send him back into the dark. He also wanted to eat, and he wanted to spit into Slade’s one good eye. But mostly he was tired. He knew what his answer was, but this time he was too weary to say it.

“Do _not_ make me wonder if I’m wasting my time on you,” Slade said in a frigid near-whisper. “Or did I not make it clear that your friends will only live as long as I have a use for you?” 

Dick’s heart stuttered in his chest. For the first time he looked into Slade’s face, saw the man’s brow furrowed under the cloth mask, and fresh, almost-forgotten fear curled around his gut. 

“I’ll do it,” he mumbled, gaze drifting down to his hand on the sword. 

They were just words. It didn’t matter. Not really. 

“Look me in the eye when you’re speaking to me.” Slowly, wearily, Dick obeyed the order. “Your name?” Slade prompted him.

He forced the name out. It felt like ripping something out of his chest, something he could never put back. _I’m sorry, Jay. I’m sorry the title had to die with me._

“Renegade.”

“And what do you swear to do,” Slade asked, “on the lives of your friends?”

He could have sworn he could still smell the burning wick, feel the leather binding fraying under his fingers, still hear Bruce’s baritone voice overlaying his own as they spoke the oath together, _‘I swear to fight against crime and corruption, and never to swerve from the path of righteousness_ \-- _’_

“I swear to,” he swallowed, “serve as your apprentice.”

“And?”

“To follow your orders.” _Words_. _Just words_ , he told himself, even as frustrated tears pricked at his eyes. “But--”

“No,” Slade barked. “No conditions. That isn’t how this deal of ours works.” Slade pulled the sword back and slid it back into its sheath. “We’re done,” he said shortly, and waved a hand toward the tray of food that Dick had given up on looking away from. “When you finish that there’s medication in the kitchen.”

Dick watched Slade walking away, fully confident that he had won, and what was left of Dick’s anger reached its boiling point. 

“What about you?” he burst out. Slade stopped, and turned slowly. “If this is a deal, then what’s your oath?”

Slade surveyed him for a long moment before he spoke. “You have what I’ve already promised you, that I’ll teach and train you to the best of my ability...and that your life from now on will only be as difficult as you make it. You have my word on that. And I do keep my word, Renegade.”

He turned, then stopped as though something had occurred to him. “Oh, and I fixed you a new uniform top. You’ll be wearing it tomorrow night.” Slade grabbed something from the table beside him and tossed the black and orange bundle of kevlar beside the food tray before starting for the hall. “I’ll be going out tonight,” he called back. “If I were you, I’d use the time to ensure I was in shape for my first encounter with the HIVE.”

As soon as the doors closed behind Slade, Dick dropped like a stone into the chair by the table. His stomach was doing uncomfortable things at the sight of the food, and it was all he could do to make sure that he ate slowly enough to keep the food from forcing its way up again. 

Finally he finished and leaned back in the chair. Slade had left an ice pack beside the tray; Dick carefully pressed it against his ribcage, and was musing over what medication he should take before proceeding with some semblance of a workout when Slade’s final words finally sank in. 

The HIVE? They were going to ‘encounter’ the _HIVE_? 

The one mystery that had haunted him beyond that of Deathstroke’s identity had been the HIVE’s location and intentions. The Titans had known that Ravager had been hired by the mysterious organization, but beyond that Dick hadn’t had a clue of where to start an investigation. That had left the team completely vulnerable to whatever attack might come next, and it had been driving him mad. 

But then Deathstroke had proven himself a more immediate threat, and the organization had lost its priority. 

What was Slade planning now? He had as good as said that first night that he planned to hold the HIVE accountable for what had happened to his son, and that he intended for Dick to help him do it. Well, that was one thing Dick would not object to. 

Dick’s gaze drifted toward the new uniform lying on the table, forgotten until now. A little curious, he reached to pick it up

\--only to drop it like a burning coal.

A familiar emblem, a golden ‘R’ that he hadn't expected to see again, was attached to the kevlar over his heart. 

R, for _Renegade_.

\+ - + - + - +

A flurry of thin screeching and leathery wings heralded his return. Long, weary steps, hindered by the tattered cape tangling around his ankles, carried Batman from the landing bay toward the main computers and past the enshrined uniform. 

His fingers skimmed a feather touch across the glass casing in answer to the youthful greeting whose deafening absence hollowed the cave out into a tomb, as it should. He settled heavily into the computer chair, and exhaled as much of the weight as would pass out of his lungs, while the gravity still dragged him down. 

Familiar clipped footsteps approached his seat from behind, and then paused. “Welcome home, Master Bruce. I trust that you return uninjured?”

Bruce didn’t push back his cowl, didn’t turn. In keeping with their nightly routine, he activated the computer before Alfred would inquire further. 

“Sir,” Alfred began again, hesitantly, “during your absence Lucius Fox made multiple attempts to contact you. I...must insist that you listen to what he had to say.”

“I’ll look into it,” Batman said, and his voice came out like gravel. He swallowed, and then out of basic duty, and debt, he forced out the rest. “...Thank you.”

Alfred opened his mouth briefly before resigning himself to pensively pinching his lips together. 

Batman pretended not to notice.

Alfred’s concern was ironic, to say the least. If patrols had been ending with more injuries than usual, even Alfred must understand how little that mattered now. With that shrine erected in memory of a child’s life cut short while the father’s inexplicably lingered on, it was impossible to believe otherwise--or to be selfish enough to wish that the still-living child might return to the city that would only eat him alive too.

He prepared to review Gotham’s recent activity. It was inevitable that an excursion with the League, no matter how rare or how urgent, had resulted in him being cut off from his city. He had told the League to contact him for nothing less than an emergency of intergalactic proportions--and they had then proceeded to summon him for exactly that.

Grimly, he braced for the inevitable. The unanswered signals, the damage, the deaths...

An alert flashing across his screen interrupted his search, and in an instant he was viewing surveillance footage of a recent theft from Wayne Tower. 

At his shoulder, Alfred sighed. “Perhaps the messages shall be unnecessary,” he said, a note of tension coloring his tone.

Batman didn’t have time to wonder why before the screen came to life. A figure in orange and black emerged from a hatch and darted across the rooftop--with the Teen Titans hot on his heels. At one end of the roof the figure halted, hand pressed to his ear, as if listening to an earpiece. 

Bruce’s finger slammed down on the keyboard to freeze the screen. He zoomed in. The intruder was clearly a teenager, whose long dark bangs nearly obscured the domino mask that left his identity unmistakable. 

Bruce lurched to his feet, shoving back his cowl, eyes glued to the screen as he searched desperately for a contradiction to what he already knew to be true. 

But the recording played on, and Bruce watched as Dick took on his own team single-handedly, his attacks clearly restrained, yet marked with the ferocity of a battle he could not afford to lose. By the time the clip ended the Wayne sign’s lettering was scattered in smoking shambles across the roof, and Dick had vanished with the dissipating smoke, leaving Bruce with a hauntingly familiar hollow forming in his chest.

“Is the lad alright, sir?” Alfred asked softly. 

Was he? Bruce should know, he should have watched his surviving son more closely because he recognized those colors, that pattern--

and, already, it was happening _again_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll see more of Bruce, as well as a few other characters, in the next chapter. Things are beginning to happen...
> 
> (Also, I based one of my Inktober drawings on Dick and Jason from this chapter: [it's here](https://chief-of-restless-hearts.tumblr.com/post/632804228640931840/inktober-day-23-rip-how-the-hell-did-i-lose-a).)


	4. Sensibilities

Biting autumn wind whipped at Dick’s left side, carrying soft drizzling rain that dusted his face and hair with icy glitter. He didn’t mind. It was physical and _real_ and the light shiver that raced over his shoulders was just part of the relief.

_“Enjoying the sights, Renegade?”_

Dick flinched slightly at Slade’s voice through the comm, and at what was either a very good guess or a pointed hint that he was still being watched.

Light pollution had stained the sky a dirty, starless red, but he still couldn’t bring himself to pull his gaze away from the overgrown neighboring lot until he heard the hum of engines entering the abandoned multistory parking garage. Cautiously, he shifted his position atop the cement divide, pressing further into the shadows.

“Targets in sight,” he whispered, knowing that his comm would pick it up. Three sleek black cars were pulling into the lot below, one parking just inside the structure while the others continued down to the lower level to their waiting clients. “One staying up here, two heading down to you,” he added.

_“Glad to hear it. But you forgot something.”_

Dick paused for a consternated moment before he recognized his slip. “...Sir,” he added belatedly, grimacing.

Slade’s end went silent. But the HIVE members below would approach their potential buyers any moment now, and Dick had been assigned the task of eliminating their sentries before Slade interrupted the transaction.

Dick drew a steadying breath and let his gaze flicker once more across the area. He was still a little unsteady on his feet and sensitive around his torso, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t handle the three...no, five armed men that were stepping out of the parked vehicle. Each of the HIVE sentries wore identical cult-like dark hooded robes--but this cult sold experimental weaponry.

The sentries exchanged a few words and dispersed to patrol the lot’s perimeter.

Dick crept along the ledge, darting from shadow to shadow until he was directly above his chosen target. He landed lightly behind him, dropped him with one carefully aimed strike, and hastily fished a zip-tie out of his belt. The ties had always been basic equipment for Batman and Robin, and Slade had only looked askance at him when he’d grabbed them from the work table earlier that night.

A few precious seconds later the man’s hands were tied behind his back. Dick stepped over the unconscious sentry and crept silently toward the next, who he dispatched just as easily.

He was approaching the third when a muffled shout and clattering gunfire from the floor below shattered the silence. His target sentry whirled--saw him. Dick kicked out at the gun just in time to deflect the spray of bullets.

Whatever had happened on the level below was Slade’s fault, Dick just _knew_ it, and as he jumped the sentry he sent him slamming face-first into the concrete with more force than was strictly necessary. The remaining two were already coming. One gunman rounded the corner. The man halted to shout for his partner; Dick rolled and kicked up into the man’s diaphragm, leaving the man gagging until Dick drove a sharp elbow into his temple.

And then Dick was staring down the barrel of a gun.

Those few seconds he’d taken had been too long. The world slowed as his mind raced--and then the man flinched backward with a scream.

The gun hit the floor, triggering a wild spray of bullets, and the sentry was clutching his bleeding fist...

...that had a _shuriken_ embedded in it.

Dick twisted in the direction of the throw. Atop the dividing wall where he’d been hiding barely two minutes ago, he saw a figure half-obscured by shadow--someone that he _recognized_ , if only from looking in the mirror. He recognized the pitch black cape, the skull mask with a red X painted across its face.

The figure vanished. Literally.

Dick sprinted to scale the wall, but on the other side he saw nothing but fences and the long, wild grass swaying in the rain-flecked breeze.

He dropped down, sprinted left toward the street. He staggered to a halt when he reached it, throwing his gaze in both directions but there was nothing, not even a single car to interrupt the long stretch of empty, poorly lit road.

Dick groaned aloud, raking an agitated hand through his hair. He had been an idiot, a hopeless _idiot_ not to destroy that suit. He should have taken into account the possibility of theft, even if his Red X identity was essentially a team secret. He’d installed the suit with volatile chemicals and a _camouflage factor_ for Pete’s sake, and all he’d done was _hide_ it.

But whoever had stolen it had just gone out of their way to help him.

Dick stood there in the street feeling helpless and stupid until he shook himself and turned back. Whoever the thief was, he couldn’t risk investigating any further just yet. Slade would be expecting him back by now. He could only hope that the thief intended to put the suit to more heroic purposes than he had.

He had been distracted before, losing his head and wasting time, but just as he made it back over the wall he heard it. Muffled by distance but unmistakable, he heard a man _scream_.

With his heart in his throat he raced headlong down the ramp toward the persistent, horrible wail until he came within sight of it all.

The floor below the ramp was littered with twisted bodies, some clad in HIVE robes, some in common street clothes, but then another scream ripped his gaze toward another robed body, prostrate on the floor. Deathstroke was standing over him, his boot on the man’s knee, the point of his long blade buried deep in the man’s ankle.

“P-please,” the man sobbed, “I...I don’t know where, I swear, I _swear--_ ”

Deathstroke yanked his sword up and out of the ankle, ripping an inhuman shriek from the man’s throat.

Dick lunged from his vantage point, surrendering to the furious haze and kicking into Deathstroke’s blindside. The masked head jerked backward too suddenly for Dick to redirect his trajectory, and he landed into a skid that put a good seven feet between them.

“Whatever you’re doing to him, _stop it!”_ he yelled, darting a look at the injured man, whose bloodless face turned to him, contorted with desperation.

Deathstroke heaved a long-suffering sigh. “This is just a common thug, kid. They’re a dime a dozen.”

His every muscle braced for action, Dick bared his teeth in a snarl. “You’re not killing--or torturing-- _anyone_ on my watch.”

Deathstroke scoffed. He tugged a cloth from his belt and used it to swipe the blood off his dripping sword. His victim flinched as the spray struck his face.

“Did you expect me to alter my methods to humor your sensibilities?” he asked sardonically, levelling Dick with a glacial stare. “I don’t think you understand how this arrangement works.”

The man on the ground whimpered, and something inside Dick snapped. With a roar he threw himself at Deathstroke unthinkingly, without a plan, in a way that could only have ended the way that it did, with Deathstroke sidestepping, catching him by the front, and slamming his back down onto the pavement.

Already dazed and breathless, the crushing, _searing_ weight of Deathstroke’s boot against his ribs set darkness pressing in on the edges of his vision and left him gaping helplessly.

Blood-warmed steel pricked his throat. His vision cleared. He saw the sword stretching down toward him, and Deathstroke leaning closer. Each faint, hitching breath edged him closer to agonized dizziness, he couldn’t breathe, and already he was fighting off instinctual panic.

“Enough,” Deathstroke barked. “Before we leave I need to gather some information, and what _you_ are about to do is be a good little apprentice and wait in the car until I’m finished. Understood, Renegade?”

Dick’s teeth stayed stubbornly clenched together, paired with as defiant a glare as he could muster. Deathstroke leaned additional weight into his already caving ribs.

“This is _not_ up for debate,” he hissed. “Do I need to make threats?”

Dick’s already thin breath caught in his chest.

Slade must have seen a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, because he huffed. “I thought not.”

The weight on his chest withdrew. Dick rolled onto his side, away from Slade, cradling his burning ribs and gulping air hungrily. With his back still turned to Slade and the whimpering man, he forced himself to stand. Every muscle in his rigid body screamed at him to turn around.

“Don’t worry,” Slade said dryly, “I won’t kill him.”

Slade had briefly activated Kory’s probes before, just to punish him. It was too easy to imagine Slade’s threats enacted on all his friends, what it would _feel_ like for them when--

He couldn’t.

Not now.

One halting step and then another carried him away from the gory scene, his gut roiling with revulsion and self loathing.

_He couldn’t._

The man’s sobbing pleas followed him long after he left their sight.

He sat in the backseat of the waiting car with a dreamlike fixation on the bloody smears on his boots--until he jumped at a shot. His heart seemed to stop under his aching ribs until the sound was followed by a cry, and a series of ascending and descending moans. His heartbeat resumed, an uneven and guilty throb.

Slade had kept his promise.

He flinched again when Slade opened the trunk to throw equipment inside, but stayed as still as possible when Slade slid into the driver’s seat. Slade started the car without comment, and the car pulled into the street amidst deafening silence. Dick didn’t want to think about what would happen when the silence did break.

They made down the highway, but Dick resisted the compulsion to turn and watch the city lights behind him diminish and fade. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut and saw with gruesome clarity all that he had turned his back on.

He shuddered.

\+ - + - + - +

With precise, tight movements, Batman maneuvered the jet-- _no, the Batwing_ , he could almost hear Dick’s young voice insist, and he sternly pushed the distracting memory aside--to land on the rooftop nearest the blip on his screen that was the last recorded location of Robin’s costume tracker before it had blinked out four days ago.

No sooner had he completed the landing than his fumbling fingers were working the doors to leave the cockpit.

Within seconds he had descended into the alley below and was surveying the garbage littered area through the cowl’s night vision. He cursed the days lost first by the League mission and then the precious hours stolen out of necessity by cursory research and then tracing the tracker before he could even begin to take action.

His eyes swept the littered alley floor for something, anything to indicate that Dick had been in that alley--and then something caught his eye.

A barrel, its inside scorched a sooty black.

Over the rim was draped a limp shadow the same charcoal shade. His cape whipped out behind him in his rush to approach it.

An unbearable weight pressed down on his shoulders with every step that carried him closer, until finally he was reaching inside to ever so gingerly lift tattered cloth and cape of charred crimson and gold with shaking fingers.

 _Again_.

It had happened _again_.

His knees struck the alley floor, one splashing a shallow puddle, and distantly he mused that it had rained more than once that week. That would have washed away most if not all viable evidence, and had likely extinguished the flames before the costume could be entirely consumed.

His breath quickened, his vision blurred, and charred fabric was under his fingers, still hot from the blast and the still-warm small body inside it and he had failed, failed again, failed another son...

His fist closed around the fragile fabric, by sheer will leaving the burning Qurac sands to return to the alley. No. He was not in Qurac. There was damp pavement under his knees, not burning sand, and this time he held an empty costume. Not his son. Not this time.

And this time, he might not be too late. He forced his breathing to level out, and activated the communicator in his cowl.

“Alfred,” he said hoarsely, still out of it enough for the name to slip out in the field.

_“Have you found something, sir?”_

Alfred’s voice responded immediately, reminding him again that the older man was as affected by the situation as he was. He suddenly wondered how long he had been kneeling there. His legs were numb beneath him.

“I found it.” He heard his own voice distantly, flat and lifeless.

 _“Indeed, sir?”_ Alfred's voice faltered uncertainly between hope and fear.

“The tracker was destroyed with the costume. With fire...” instinctively his thoughts turned analytical, cold, factual, to evidence he could use, “fueled by gasoline, but the flames were smothered by the rainfall not long afterward. That aligns with the time that the tracker blinked out.”

It hit him suddenly in a mix of disappointment and relief that there was no evidence of Robin ever having been there. Still, this was a statement. For whom? The attack on Wayne Enterprises could be construed as a means of attracting the attention of Gotham’s Dark Knight, but there was something about it, something that made him wonder whether this might not be about him or the Titans.

The Titans files he had hastily unearthed recorded Deathstroke having a peculiar preoccupation with the young team, but perhaps that preoccupation had been directed toward one Titan in particular. Perhaps this was all about Robin. Perhaps it always had been.

“This message wasn’t meant for me. Deathstroke made Robin do this, just as he made him attack Wayne Enterprises.” Another realization struck him with fierce conviction. “He’s alive,” he breathed, and just hearing the words from his own lips flooded his body with relief.

He heard Alfred’s relieved exhale on the other end. _“I am very glad, sir.”_

He relaxed, strengthened with renewed conviction. Whatever Deathstroke wanted with Robin, he had spent far too great an amount of time fixating on the boy to...dispose of him so quickly. No, he needed to focus his concern on something potentially worse:

Whatever Deathstroke might want Robin alive for.

His thoughts were already outside the alley. “I need to follow the trail from the beginning. Until I do this midpoint can’t make sense.”

_“You could always begin by contacting his friends, sir.”_

“One more thing first.” It had always been a rule, no matter how far apart they were, that they should always keep an active comm link between them. He had tried to contact him on it for hours now, to no avail, but he intended to cover all possible bases, and that included Dick’s civilian phone. If nothing else, they could trace that too. “I need his phone number.”

He could feel the disapproval in Alfred's pause. _“It was you who bought the phone for him, Master Bruce.”_

“There was never a need to use it to contact him before now,” he said tersely. “Now, if you please...?”

He heard a long, weary exhale on the other end of the line. _“Yes sir, here.”_

Alfred recited the number, and he dialed. It was practically absurd to expect it to be as easy as this, but still he waited with bated breath. His heart rate stuttered when the ringing cut off.

For a moment there was a silence on the other end that he was about to break when a voice finally interrupted it.

_“Is this...Batman?”_

It was Victor Stone’s voice. Cyborg.

He swallowed his frustration before responding.

“Where did you find this phone,” he demanded. There was no time to beat around the bush and no time to be concerned for his secret identity, even though it was very likely that the caller ID on Dick’s phone had him named as Bruce Wayne and the Titan was already putting two and two together.

_“It was...we found it in Robin’s room. We’ve, uh...been trying to contact you, but you weren’t--”_

“I know about the sabotage and I know about Deathstroke,” Batman interrupted, already grappling back up to the roof.

_“Did you just...hack into our computers?”_

There had been no official record of the assassin’s presence in New York, and to find further information Batman had needed to tap into the Titans’ computers. His usual sources for following the team’s activities had proven insufficient, and though he typically preferred to respect the young team’s independence and privacy--especially after Dick had fought him so furiously for every inch of it--this was the most extreme of circumstances.

“You have greater concerns at the moment than your privacy,” he said instead. “Expect me at Titans Tower within ten minutes.”

Approaching the Batwing, he looked down again at the emaciated costume in his arms. After another lingering, nauseating bout of deja vu, he gently draped it over the seat opposite him in the jet.

It was a long eight minutes before the jet settled on the landing pad atop Titans Tower. He descended into the building, and found the young team gathered in their conference room.

As Batman he had been here more than once; neither occasion carried favorable memories. Here had been the last time he and Dick had exchanged more than a few tense words, and here had been the last time he had seen Dick as Robin. Dick had taken care to avoid any possible opportunity for Bruce to criticize his decision to keep the title.

He pried himself away from soured memories to face the team--the _children,_ and how many more would suffer for this never ending war--gathered before him. They all gazed at him with varying degrees of foreboding expectancy, though for Garfield Logan--Beast Boy--there was a glimmer of curiosity, and for the Tamaranian--Starfire--there was a simmering rage in the green eyes that were fixed on him so intently.

Cyborg, stationed at the front of the group, took a breath before speaking. “Right, well,” he began, rubbing the back of his neck, “It’s been a heckuva week. Where, uh, should we start?”

“With Deathstroke,” Batman said firmly. “Whether I already know the facts or not, I want to hear them from you.”

Cyborg described their first encounter with the mercenary, who had attacked Starfire just to leave them a mocking hint about his next target in New York. He began to falter, and Raven interceded by placing a hand on the young man’s shoulder and calmly continuing the tale herself.

That hadn’t been the last they heard from Deathstroke, whose messages had seemed to target Robin specifically, and Robin had only grown more angry and withdrawn with each message that followed.

Red X was a name that had been carefully omitted from their records. The mysterious thief had clashed with the Titans twice before they discovered that it was Robin under the mask, and that he had invented the identity as a ruse to draw Slade out into the open by...seeking a partnership with him.

The girl’s serene exterior faltered almost imperceptibly. Her teammates looked equally uncomfortable. Was it betrayal, or guilt--or perhaps they had realized, as he had, that they all should have anticipated and prevented the inevitable catastrophe to come.

It had culminated in the kidnapping of Sarah Simm. The young woman was a close friend of Victor Stone, whose civilian identity had never been the secret that some of his teammates’ had been. A series of clues that in retrospect seemed far too conveniently placed had led them down into the sewers where they had found not Sarah, but a bomb. Robin had earlier insisted on separating from the team to follow his own lead, and after they had managed to disarm the bomb and return to the surface he was still nowhere to be found.

They had found him later that night, wearing Deathstroke’s colors and facing them as an enemy.

“Did he seem to know you?” Batman interjected. “To recognize you?”

Raven nodded without hesitation. She said that she would have been able to tell if his mind had been somehow disordered. The possibilities were narrowing down, and yet somehow nothing had grown clearer. That the Titans had afterward found Sarah Simm tied up in her apartment and uninjured only served as further proof that the entire charade had been nothing but a ruse to get to Robin.

Raven’s account of the ‘incident’ atop Wayne Enterprises came to a halt directly before Starfire and Robin had disappeared together atop the lettering--one of the few portions of the battle that had occurred outside the range of vision of the only functioning surveillance camera.

Raven paused and looked over at Starfire. The others did too, and the alien girl who had until now remained silent with fists clenched tightly at her sides burst out, “He didn’t do it willingly! What happened meant _nothing_!”

Batman frowned slightly. Whatever had happened, it had clearly left the girl distraught.

Every other camera on that roof, and even on surrounding buildings, had been tampered with. All but this one. From the beginning he had been furiously certain that the working camera was a calculated oversight intended to mock him, but now his suspicions took on a sober foreboding.

“What meant nothing?” he asked, as patiently as he could.

The Tamaranian girl hesitated, then lifted her chin defiantly. “I confronted him atop the lettered sign. We were both armed and left at a stalemate, and then...” for the first time she faltered, “he fired his weapon. It...must have been some kind of energy blaster.”

She stopped, now staring at the floor, as though finished.

“And then he shot her again,” snapped a new voice. Beast Boy was glaring at him with a ferocity almost equal to Starfire’s.

Starfire’s gaze snapped from the floor to her teammate.

“That is not--”

“That is _exactly_ what happened, Kory, and you denying what happened isn’t gonna change it.”

“Starfire,” Batman said slowly, his foreboding controlled, but boiling ominously just below the surface, “Whatever happened, there is no need to convince me of Robin’s integrity. I more than anyone have already been convinced of it.”

The girl relaxed somewhat, but a distant look entered her eyes.

“I...had first tried to appeal to him, and lowered my defenses. I...believe that he tried to speak to me, but my memories...I was suddenly in horrible pain, and lost consciousness briefly, so I can’t remember it clearly, but before he fired again, I heard...” she stopped, swallowed, and looked at him with eyes that pleaded for explanation, “he said, ‘ _I'm sorry’_.”

. . .

“Damn it, why didn’t he _tell_ me?”

Bruce’s fist slammed down. His untouched cup of coffee splashed across the desk; Alfred was already moving to clean it up, still as vigilant a presence as he had been for the past two hours, Bruce noted with a distracted sting of guilt. The looped video of the altercation atop Wayne Enterprises repeated from the beginning, and once again it failed to reveal anything new to him.

“Deathstroke the Terminator had been haunting the Teen Titans’ steps for _months_ ,” he ground out, “and Dick didn’t think I should _know_?” The muscles of his back, shoulders, arms, and tightly clenched fists were bound wire tight to the point of trembling, and with a heavy sigh, he loosened them. “How did we get like this, Alfred? He used to tell me everything.”

Alfred breathed a near silent sigh of his own. “Much has changed, sir.”

Bruce noticed Alfred’s gaze flicker toward the memorial case. Much had changed. Far, far too much.

But Jason hadn’t been the one to drive Dick away.

. . .

_Dick was crouched beside him on the roof, warm night wind whipping his hair back from the face that was rapidly losing it’s youthful softness, with something weary around his eyes that made him look older than any child should at fourteen._

_“You’re looking especially grim tonight,” Dick said lightly._

_Dick had been pushing himself recently, overburdening himself with school, Gotham, and the Titans, living three lives at once, and until now Bruce had only watched. “...We haven’t done this for a while,” he said slowly, trying to work his thoughts into words._

_“Guess not,” Dick said after a moment of silence as he gazed down at the stirring street below. He shot him a grin that flashed against the magenta neon of the street signs. “Did’ya miss me?”_

_The little stab sliced neatly between his ribs._

_Bruce was seeing him less with each passing week, and every time he did, Dick looked older._

_“I’ve been considering designing a new Robin costume,” he said, and hesitated before continuing. He turned to look Dick in the eyes. “Your recent absences have forced me to compensate. Gotham needs a Robin, and recently it hasn’t had one.” He paused again. “Jason has been training hard these past few weeks.”_

_He watched the smile fall from Dick’s face._

_He waited for Dick to protest. To argue that he was Robin and that Gotham would never need another one. That Robin would devote more time to Gotham, that he would make it work._

_He waited for that anger._

_The silence that came instead stretched on until its agonizing tautness snapped between them with stingingly rapid release._

_“Was there a question in there? Because I sure as hell didn’t hear one.” Dick’s words were laced with potent, corrosive venom, his expression twisted into ugliness in the reflected light. “But hey, maybe you’re right. Sometimes you make me wonder why I come back at all.”_

_He leapt off suddenly and let his grapply carry him away from Bruce, who felt too heavy with ache and frustration to make himself follow. He let Dick go, and that would only be the first of his regrets._

. . .

Jason had been giddy at receiving the Robin mantle, and for the next months, for the next year, Bruce had forced himself to focus on that. On something that he could do right.

Regrets.

So many, built up from one night in an alley, gathering in the corners of his chest and mind, weighing him down and plaguing him through every moment of undistracted silence.

Anything could be happening to Dick now, and there was very little that he could do about it until he knew more about the assassin and why he was interested in Robin. His task was greatly complicated by Deathstroke’s recent inactivity in the criminal underworld. No behavioural pattern could be identified and tracked where one had never been formed.

Alfred’s quiet voice stirred him from his frustrated musings. “Have you developed any theories, Master Bruce?”

The question was so simple, so fundamental. It should have been easier to answer. “Clearly Dick succeeded in his initial ruse to attract Deathstroke’s attention as a potential partner,” Bruce began slowly, his hands again curling into fists. “He must still be undercover. But whatever he was planning, he’s in way over his head. I’m getting him out.”

Alfred nodded, and his weary features relaxed somewhat, telling Bruce that his grim hypothesis had managed to be of some comfort to the older man, at least.

An alert blinked across the computer screens. Bruce wheeled to intercept the police radio report that had triggered the alert--as well as a clip of street surveillance footage.

“It’s Dick,” he barked. “He’s been sighted.” He was already racing back to the jet. He vaguely heard Alfred calling after him, but the words were lost in the noise of urgency and smothered hope buzzing through his mind. He could feel the fresh trail going colder with every instant that passed.

He couldn’t take them back, couldn’t undo his mistakes, his bloody, damning failures--but he could prevent another.

He would.

It wouldn’t happen again.

\+ - + - + - +

Slade had yet to remove a single piece of equipment since storming into the bunker, not even his mask, and something familiar in the reticence made the base of Dick’s neck prickle in warning. He hadn’t needed Slade to tell him to follow him into the gym, but he had still been ordered to, and in a tone that only confirmed the inevitable.

He felt strangely resigned to the coming punishment, but that couldn’t quite squash the vigilant self-preservation instinct that still had his mind spinning in circles searching for an escape that didn’t exist, grasping for something, anything within his control--or at least familiar.

And Slade was angry.

Bruce’s anger, or grief, or a mixture of the two, had usually taken the form of frigid silence. Dick had quickly developed the habit of melting the metaphorical iceblock with dumb jokes or case-relevant chatter. It had distracted Bruce. It had helped.

His options were more limited, now...but whether Slade wanted to hear it or not, he _did_ have something to say.

He didn’t wait for them to reach the end of the hall.

“This can only go so far,” he began. Still walking, Slade gave no indication that he had heard him. “Ultimately I can’t give you what you want.”

“Speak plainly, Renegade,” Slade said acidly, without turning his head. “ _What_ can’t you give me, exactly?”

Dick drew a steadying breath, and said the words that he prayed he would never be forced to stand behind. “I won’t... _kill_ for you. No matter what you threaten the Titans with. I committed to protecting other lives at the expense of my own, but so did they.”

Slade hummed with feigned thoughtfulness. “Spoken like a true soldier. But those are Batman’s words. Batman’s mission. And you’re not him.” Slade pushed through the doors to the training room. “Though you hold to his code, you differ in conviction--and I think we both know that you’re bluffing.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Dick hissed.

“You really are doing everything in your power to convince me that I’m wasting my time on you,” Slade said slowly, and turned to fix Dick with such a look that he halted on the spot. “Isn’t that a little counterproductive?”

“No,” Dick said, a beat too quickly. “Mercenaries don’t need to kill. I could still help you.”

“You’re not ‘helping’ me, you’re my _apprentice_. And my apprentice is still trying to dictate how I run my own business.” Slade turned to step onto the training mat. He detached his staff from his belt before turning again. “You have a lot to learn, Renegade, but first and foremost you need to learn some _respect_.” He extended the staff in one sharp swipe. “Something Batman clearly never taught you.”

. . .

Training was very thorough that night.

Varied weaponry and blows that hit home without restraint.

Everywhere except his ribs. That was where Slade’s blows had landed and that was where it hurt when he even thought about moving. But he needed to move. He made it halfway across the room before he stumbled, and then again in the hall. He made it to his room before he collapsed completely.

It was almost funny, actually, how that man from the HIVE had been hurt worse than he had. Funny, because by all rights, in the spirit of justice or fairness or just plain karma--for both the man he had abandoned and the friends who could die horrifically at any moment just because he’d been insane enough to try playing mind-games with the world’s deadliest assassin--Dick should have received far worse. At least if Slade had killed him he wouldn’t need to worry about stitching himself up just so tomorrow Slade could cut him up all over again.

Funny...but despite the giddy lightness in his head, he didn’t feel like laughing.

He fumbled for the first aid kit beside his cot. Inside there should at least be some pain medication...something...

Gravity pulled his forehead down against the cool surface of the floor, and he sank into dark relief.

. . .

His eyes drifted open just enough to take in the darkness surrounding him. He was on his back, on the cot, and though his memory as to how he got there was sluggish, that felt strange. He stirred just slightly, and felt the pinching sensation of a IV in his arm. He felt mildly better than the night before, but not enough to remove it just yet.

His gaze drifted across the dark room, seeing nothing but the faint memory of someone stationed beside his bed, someone who he trusted to remain there in vigil until he woke again.

He wished that Bruce was dozing off beside the bed--his own bed. He wished that Alfred would smile at him from the doorway to tell him that everything would be okay. The room stayed barren, despite his wishing.

He sank back into the pillow, squeezed his stinging hot eyes shut, and willed himself to dream it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to start putting out chapters once a month now because that's a rate I can stick with. Thank you to everyone who's read this far!
> 
> Next chapter, Bruce is going to the Justice League.


	5. Trial

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! it's felt like a very long month, but the chapters are already getting longer. And there are so many characters in this chapter. So many.

It was all wrong.

Dick’s mannerisms were off, twitchy and uncertain and completely foreign to his usual bearing--even under stress. And...his _face_. Unobscured by the grainy video quality, it seemed drawn...even gaunt. 

Batman replayed the street cam footage, and watched as the boy, still wearing that dark mirror of Deathstroke’s costume, ran out from alongside the abandoned car lot and halted abruptly at the edge of the road. He threw his gaze back and forth down the empty street, as though looking for something. As though he had been chasing something.

Dick loitered agitatedly for a few moments longer and then turned and vanished out of the camera's view.

But there had been something about his expression...

Batman replayed the clip on his portable computer again. Heavy rain whipped at his cape and cowl, running in frigid rivers down his shoulders, but he remained utterly fixated. Crouched atop the building that Dick had emerged from in the recording, he had finished examining the roped off crime scene below, the details of it rotating through his mind as he studied the only true evidence that Dick had ever been there--aside from the bloodied shuriken which he had personally ensured would not be entered into police records. 

None of the suspects, either captured or deceased, had sustained injuries compatible with what the shuriken must have inflicted. Which meant he had another suspect to hunt and interrogate. One more easily accessible than the survivors who had already been incarcerated.

Batman would need to move carefully to avoid justifying any rumored link between Robin and the boy captured on the tape. The sudden return of the Robin emblem alone was more than incriminating enough, and that made the motivation behind it all too clear. Deathstroke intended to isolate Robin from his allies, to destroy his reputation and relationships beyond repair and entrap him completely.

Batman would see him disappointed. His hatred for the assassin grew more intense with every hour, every day that passed. 

Five days. Five days Dick had been missing, with Deathstroke, and now he looked like _this_.

Bruce lightly traced the image with his finger.

_What did he_ do _to you, Dick?_

. . .

The lone survivor on the lower floor had clearly and gruesomely been singled out for the sake of interrogation or vendetta, and between emergency surgeries and the time necessary for recovery, the suspect was slated to remain unconscious and sedated for at least the next day.

Batman glared down at the haggard-looking man in the hospital bed, lingering in spite of this. It was maddening, knowing that testimony that could incriminate Deathstroke and exonerate his boy accomplice of bloodshed was just out of reach.

He was wasting time.

While the looped cameras would be automatically restored to their normal state once he was clear of the building, a nurse could stop by at any moment. He turned to leave.

No sooner did he face the window than he saw the familiar brightly costumed figure hovering just outside it.

He gritted his teeth and slipped outside. He ignored Superman’s attempts to meet his gaze as he closed and locked the window behind him and he grappled up to the roof, and then he turned to face the man with a scowl.

“So the video has leaked already,” he said flatly, without any question attached to it.

“I’m afraid so,” Superman confirmed, his expression pensive as his feet settled gently on the roof. “It was leaked to the Planet a few minutes ago. I’m not sure how many other papers and stations received it, but I’m not too optimistic.” He hesitated. “I came as soon as I heard. I’ve already done a quick scan of this part of the city, that’s how I found you, but...is there any other way I could help?”

Batman squeezed his eyes shut and resisted the temptation to reject the offer completely. He couldn’t afford to. Not this time. Especially not after...the other time he had tried to save one of his charges alone.

“I already know what you want to do,” he said at last, with effort. “Do it. Call the League.”

Superman was silent, but Batman didn’t turn to look at him.

This wasn’t Clark’s fault, of course it wasn’t. But it was _his_ , and how could he look Clark in the eye when he knew that with so much certainty?

“Bruce...can you tell me that he’s alright?”

“No, I can’t,” he snapped. “Deathstroke has had Robin for nearly a week. I have every reason to believe that he is _not a_ lright.”

Superman’s brow creased with confusion. “Deathstroke...?” he started, but then he shook his head. “Bruce, I...I know this can’t be easy for you--”

“This isn’t about _me_ ,” he bit out.

Superman’s expression was pinched with open empathy, the same expression he’d had after he heard that...that Jason...

Batman was tempted to slap it off his face.

“I know,” Superman assured him. “I’ll summon as many League members as I can, but before I do, I wanted to make sure that--” He broke off, and his expression said the words left unspoken. “I wanted to see you.”

Batman closed his eyes again, and sighed. “I was about to call you,” he admitted, reluctantly. “Thank you. For coming.” He knew without looking that a small smile had entered the alien’s face. 

“Nothing to thank me for,” Superman said easily. “This is for Dick. I mean, aren’t I the kid’s honorary uncle or something?”

Batman rolled his eyes, but the reminder was another little stab in his chest. “He was ten, Clark.”

Clark’s smile widened, and the weight in Bruce’s chest might have eased, if only slightly. 

. . .

He reached the Hall of Justice inexcusably late and intensely furious with himself. 

He had contacted the Titans again for aid in pinpointing the exact location where they had separated from Robin in the tunnels, as well as where they had found a bomb instead of Sarah Simm. His search of both areas had uncovered nothing, absolutely nothing, and had told him only that Deathstroke must have returned to the scene of the crime to cover his tracks.

And then he had woken suddenly in the water speeder, surrounded by frigid dampness and pitch black walls. The sewers had blocked any outside contact from Alfred or the League that could have roused him, he had still uncovered _nothing_ that could help Dick, and after less than twenty-four hours of searching already his body had failed him.

As he exited the jet and made his way into the League building he found Wally West and Donna Troy sitting together in the lobby, both in costume. They started with surprise as he passed. 

“Hey, Batman!” Wally called, but Batman’s brisk pace didn’t falter. Wally sliced across his path with lightning speed and tried to catch his eye. “Wait a sec, we just want to know--” 

Bruce fixed the boy with such a glare that his eyes widened in alarm and within an instant he had retreated back to Donna’s side.

“Is Dick okay?” Donna called after him. Her voice was high with alarm. “...Batman?”

Their mentors must have seen fit to exclude them from the meeting. They certainly had the ability to do so, as the young people had yet to be granted access to the Watchtower satellite. Dick had been the only Titan to be given a code.

Without further acknowledgement of either teen he approached the zeta tube and stepped through the transporter.

When at last he swept into the Watchtower conference room with unprecedented tardiness and a fresh bout of transporter-due nausea, not only was the League seated but the new Teen Titans team as well. Wonder Woman was standing beside them, indicating that she had been speaking to them before his interruption. 

In the sudden quiet all eyes turned to him, but he met only Wonder Woman’s gaze as he stalked toward the head of the table. In passing the others he counted, with a sting of resentment, that only five League members were present: Wonder Woman, Superman, Flash, Green Arrow, and Green Lantern. A smaller turnout at such short notice was to be expected, of course, but there were a few missing faces that he had expected to see. 

He ignored Clark’s less than subtle attempts to catch his eye. Wonder Woman, understanding Batman’s intention, nodded but said nothing as he firmly set his palm-sized portable projector on the table.

“Of the twelve suspects found at the location of the sighting,” he began as several photographs from the police archives lit up the wall behind him, “these four HIVE members were found on the upper level, and on the lower level there were found three more in addition to five men who have been identified as members of the local mob.” he switched to a new set of images, these far more gruesome than the first, “Of those found on the lower level only one, a HIVE member, was found alive. The survivor had clearly been tortured.”

Not only for the sake of the young people at the far end of the table, who already looked nauseous, but out of the bare minimum of respect due to the victim he declined to share those final images with the table.

“All injuries on the lower floor, lethal or otherwise, were inflicted by a long blade,” he continued. “In marked contrast the four HIVE members on the upper floor sustained no injuries more serious than severe bruising. The zip-tie restraints confirm that only these attacks could be credited to Robin, and that Deathstroke was responsible for the lower level killings. 

“The surviving suspects have so far refused to respond to police interrogation, and the most gravely injured suspect remains unfit for questioning. Which leaves the video footage of Robin as the only publicly accessible evidence as to the crime’s motivation or perpetrator. Because of this the authorities have not tied Deathstroke to the crime, nor do they have any reason to.”

The video flickered onto the wall and began to play as he spoke.

“The footage that captured Robin on the scene leaves no question that he has been mistreated.”

The blurry image of Dick on the screen staggered to a halt at the edge of the street, and Batman paused the video. He zoomed in on the boy’s face, and found that he needed to swallow before speaking again.

“Robin has lost weight, his movement is stiff, almost clumsy, and if he were thinking clearly he would never have unwittingly placed himself within sight of a street camera. This footage was taken five days after the last footage we have of him, from the day he disappeared, and...”

He broke off as something like a fist closed around his throat. He cleared it with some difficulty.

“...and we cannot afford to leave him in Deathstroke’s hands any longer than we already have.”

For the first time he looked across the table. The video must have been played prior his arrival to give any who hadn’t seen it an understanding of the crisis, and while the Titans were gazing at the projection with evident grief, the League members at the other end of the table seemed...uncomfortable. Only Clark and Diana returned his gaze, while Barry looked distant, Ollie toyed with the straps on his suit, and Hal’s gaze was firmly averted. The Lantern’s leg was bouncing idly.

“And we will not,” Wonder Woman said firmly but gently. “We must hope that Robin’s friends can help us further understand the circumstances.”

Batman could only nod and seat himself.

Wonder Woman turned again to Cyborg beside her at the end of the table. “If you would continue for us, Victor?”

Cyborg’s gaze lingered uneasily on Batman before he spoke up. “The whole ‘Red X’ thing was just Robin’s way of getting to that assassin.” He shrugged. “Maybe it would’ve worked out better if he had trusted us with the truth, and maybe it wouldn’t have...but he was only thinking of us--how to best protect the team.”

Wonder Woman nodded. "Of course," she said kindly. “Thank you, Victor. Now, Garfield,” she said, trying to catch Beast Boy's eye, “could you add to Victor's perspective of that night?”

Beast Boy’s chin didn’t move from where it rested on his arms crossed over the table. “Red X knocked me in front of a train while we were fighting,” the boy said frankly, but as League members exchanged glances he rolled his eyes and finished. “And then he pulled me out of the way. That didn’t make much sense ‘til we found out he was Robin.”

The questions continued, alternating between Titans as they covered events that had already been recounted to him. Still, Batman kept his eyes fixed on the Titans at the other end of the table, pointedly ignoring Clark, who was seated a few chairs to his left and still trying to catch his eye.

At last the tale reached the fateful night that Robin had resurfaced in Deathstroke’s colors.

“It doesn’t feel right, but Raven says that he wasn’t brainwashed,” Beast Boy mumbled, half into his arms. “and that’s kind of her thing, so she probably knows what she’s talking about. But...after Red X, that would make it twice this month that he’s kicked me around without that excuse.”

Wonder Woman’s lips pressed together tightly, and she paused before thanking the boy and turning to Raven. “Raven, can you confirm with absolute certainty that Robin’s mind was not interfered with in any way when you last saw him?”

Only the shift in Raven’s eyes indicated that the cloaked girl had heard her. With rigid posture, she sat with her hands folded in her lap and her hood drawn over her head.

“I wouldn’t say that it had not been interfered with in _any_ way,” she said slowly, “but not in the way that you’re asking. I could feel his...frustration, as he fought us, but if he hadn’t been in control of his body his emotions would have been clouded.”

“Thank you, Raven. Now, Koriand’r?” The Tamaranean girl’s head of thick, knee-length curls turned sharply at her name. “Could you tell us what happened that night?”

For an instant the girl’s eyes grew round, almost alarmed, before her gaze returned to her lap. After a moment she began describing Robin’s erratic behaviour that morning--all due to his anger at Deathstroke--and how he had vanished during the subsequent search for Sarah Simm. By the time she reached the fight on the roof, her words came more slowly, reluctantly. At last, her words trailed to a stop.

Wonder Woman leaned closer, trying to meet her eyes. “The footage we have of the incident shows that both you and Robin disappeared from view for a short period of time. Could you tell us what happened?”

Batman noticed when Green Lantern looked significantly at Green Arrow, who was frowning.

Batman suddenly shared far more of the girl’s trepidation than he cared to. 

So slowly and painfully that he could visualize her fists clenched at her sides, Starfire began to recall the incident that she had already told him. 

“I...I had pursued Robin to the top of the sign, and then we--” 

Raven suddenly gripped her shoulder. Starfire halted mid-sentence to look over her shoulder in surprise. What Batman could see of Raven’s face under her cowl was tight and wary, fixed on the other end of the table.

“Koriand’r,” she said in a low voice, dark and cold as a winter night. “They’ve already decided on his guilt. They aren’t thinking of how to help Robin, they’re thinking of how to _stop_ him.”

Batman followed Raven’s gaze to the league members to his left, most of whom seemed taken aback. He studied their faces with a barely concealed scowl. Robin had always thought highly of Raven’s competence as an empath, as well as of her friendship, but in this circumstance Batman sincerely hoped that she was mistaken.

Green Arrow leaned forward and jabbed a finger in her direction. “Look kiddo, if you’re so good at reading minds, why don’t _you_ tell us what was going on in Robin’s head? That’s all we want to know.”

Clark shot Green Arrow a stern look from across the table that was enough to make the man press his lips together and lean back in his chair.

Starfire rose above the table with clenched fists and fire in her emerald eyes. “You deceived us!” she snarled. “We came here only because we knew that Robin trusts you!”

“You said it,” Beast Boy muttered, narrowing his eyes at the League.

Cyborg gestured toward Batman with a scowl. “At least we expected better from Batman, here. You’re his father or somethin’, aren’t you?”

Batman scrutinized the unusual tension darkening Lantern’s features, Arrow’s irritated grimace, and the way Flash was awkwardly rubbing his jaw. Clark was the only one to return his gaze, but that pinched expression of concern only served to aggravate him. 

Batman recalled seeing Donna and Wally waiting restlessly back in the hall of justice, and began to wonder exactly why they had been excluded.

Wonder Woman withdrew her own disapproving look at Green Arrow to face the Titans. “Children, I assure you that we ask these questions with the purest of intentions toward Robin and his safety. Koriand’r, dear...what happened next on the rooftop? If we are to help Robin, we must know.”

Starfire descended until her feet again touched the ground in a defiant stance, but she did not sit. 

“He escaped us,” she answered shortly, leveling a scathing look on Diana. 

Wonder Woman spread her hands entreatingly, meeting the girl’s openly defiant gaze. “Your records state that that night you were the only member of your team to sustain injury. We must know what happened.”

Starfire blinked in surprise, Cyborg’s jaw dropped, and all four Titans turned to Batman with betrayed expressions. At the moment, for different but similar reasons, Batman felt the same.

“I supplied them only with the relevant documents,” he said through gritted teeth, his granite-hard gaze fixed on Wonder Woman, who returned it with a pinched brow. “Or those that I perceived to be relevant at the time. You’re taking a while to get to the point, Wonder Woman.”

Wonder Woman gave him an earnest look that pleaded to be understood before turning back to the Titans. “I assure you, _all_ of you, that this is necessary.”

Cyborg scowled deeply and crossed his arms over his chest. “You aren’t gettin’ anything out of us until you explain _why_ it’s necessary. Robin may be our leader, but he’s also our _friend_ , and we have a right to know what’s going on here.”

Diana closed her eyes for a long moment. “I...believe the League should review a few things before we continue this discussion. We will contact you when we're ready to resume.” Reaching down to her waist, she raised the lasso of truth in her hand. “I swear to you that we shall do everything in our power to help Robin. And children, though we may have led you to think otherwise, please believe me when I say that we do all share in your sorrow.”

They hesitated for a few moments, but the young people rose from their seats to follow Diana’s guiding arm toward the hall.

Green Arrow leaned toward Green Lantern, and the sensitive audio enhancers in Batman’s cowl picked up the words spoken under his breath.

“Diana did pretty well, considering,” he said wryly. “I’m sure glad I didn’t get saddled with that job. Never been much good with kids.”

Green Lantern was staring down at the table as though he hadn’t heard him, and Clark was wearily rubbing his face with his hands.

“But your ward is a teenager,” Flash protested in an equally subdued tone, sounding confused.

“Exactly,” Green Arrow sighed.

The other vigilante’s all too familiar facetious tone snapped the last fragile tendril of patience Batman had managed to retain. 

“Every last one of the Titans’ questions and concerns were valid,” he snapped, “especially considering how this team appears to be blatantly disregarding the amount of time that has already been wasted. Or has the purpose behind this gathering been forgotten already?”

His voice carried, and the young heroes paused on their way to the door. Green Arrow’s gaze snapped irritably toward his for a split instant before a flicker of remorse replaced the irritation. He dropped his gaze. 

“We haven’t forgotten anything,” he muttered. 

“Sorry about that, Batman,” Flash said ruefully, as though he had been included in the accusation. “And...I want to say how sorry I am for what happened. I mean, if it had been _Wally_...”

Flash’s tone, rather than his words, grated strangely in his ears. “Sorry for what?” he demanded.

Flash seemed taken aback. “Well, you know...” he faltered. “I can’t even begin to imagine how hard this must be for you after...”

Flash faltered again, possibly because of the overly sharp question, and also possibly, Batman considered as he picked up on sharp motion out of the corner of his eye, because Clark was staring at him, slashing his hand urgently across his throat. 

“--After what happened to the _other_ one,” another voice finished, so dry and uncharacteristically cold for Green Lantern as to be rendered nearly unrecognizable. “After that, someone should have known better than to leave a kid loose on the streets.”

“Lantern!” Wonder Woman barked, but she went unheeded. Green Lantern glowered at Batman over crossed arms.

Batman’s fingers tightened around his arm rests, but his face was an impassive mask, the muscles of it frozen of their own volition.

Seated to the Lantern’s right, Green Arrow’s gaze flickered between them. He shifted in his seat uneasily. “C’mon, Hal...” he muttered, “we don’t need to...”

“I’m sorry for lumping you in like this, Ollie, but even with Roy the situation was different. Star City is not and never will be what Gotham is. Batman chose to raise two kids on that twisted city’s streets, and nothing comes out of Gotham uncontaminated.” He turned a significant look on Batman. “Not even the good guys.” 

Batman rose slowly, stiffly. “What are you implying?”

Green Lantern rose in turn, leaning over the table toward him. “I’m _implying_ that Robin was in the perfect position for an opportunistic creep like Deathstroke to get into his head--thanks to _you_.”

Wonder Woman’s fist slammed down on the table with a roar. “Lantern, that is _ENOUGH!_ ” 

The entire table surface shuddered, a hair of pressure away from snapping in two. 

“ _Bruce_.” He heard Clark’s whisper from just beside him. There was warning in it. Clark didn’t trust him not to start something. 

And he shouldn’t.

Neither he nor Lantern made any move to sit.

Flash turned his head suddenly, and zipped to the other side of the room to quietly send off the Titans, who had been standing forgotten in the doorway with stunned expressions on each of their faces. Solemn silence filled the moments until the children were gone, and then Wonder Woman spoke again, this time with quiet anger in her voice.

“Any discussion of guilt or innocence can wait until we have found Robin. As Batman has already established, we are losing valuable time.”

“Yes, we are,” Lantern agreed sourly, dropping back into his seat. “The press will be all over this. It’s exactly what our critics have been waiting for--evidence that we’re just as dangerous and unpredictable as the criminals we take down. And the more convinced the public becomes that Robin’s turned coat, the more difficult it will be to salvage their trust in us.”

“I don’t think we need to worry about that just yet,” Clark interjected calmly, “but if it comes to that, I can help us prepare a press statement.”

“The truth should be more than enough to satisfy the public,” Batman said flatly. All faces turned to him, their expressions difficult to read. He ignored them. “The video evidence removes any question from the situation. Tell them that we are dealing with a hostage situation--that henceforth Robin’s every action should be presumed to be done under some form of coercion, and that all possible effort must be made to track Deathstroke down and recover Robin uninjured.”

There was a moment of silence.

“We can’t prove those assumptions, Batman,” Flash said quietly.

_We can’t lie to them_ , Batman heard, though it remained unspoken.

Clark raised his hand before he could snap out a retort. “Wait Barry, the video may not be the tangible proof we need, but I know Robin pretty well, and his body language in that video was definitely concerning.”

Green Arrow interjected again. “C’mon, Supes, you’ve got to admit that won’t convince anyone. If Robin was ever in a hostage situation wouldn’t he have made some attempt to leave us a message? That’s basic training, right? And that videotape doesn’t count. Even Bats admits that Robin didn’t realize he was being filmed.”

“And that isn’t all that we need to discuss, either,” interjected Green Lantern. “We can’t forget that Robin knew all of our identities and had a very high level of clearance in the Watchtower. So long as Robin is with Deathstroke our most carefully guarded secrets are at risk.”

“Gentlemen,” Wonder Woman said sternly. “Until the facts lead us to certain knowledge, please keep your theories to yourselves.”

“But we do know something for certain,” Batman snapped. “We know Robin. Every single one of you has known him for years. And you know what he is and is not capable of.” 

“Uh, Bats...” Flash began hesitantly, and Batman wheeled a stony glare at him. “I can’t stand behind everything Hal is saying, but...if we’re wondering why Robin would do something like this, I mean, you do realize what this looks like.” 

“What _does_ it look like?”

Flash visibly balked at the acid in his tone, and shrugged miserably. “C’mon, man...don't make me say it...”

“Say _what_?” Batman growled.

Flash swallowed, shrugged again, and started fiddling with one of his gloves. “It’s just that...I mean, we were all kind of under the impression that, uh...you and Robin didn’t part on the best of terms?”

Ice, hard and painfully sharp, formed in the center of his chest. Cutting into his lungs until all he could take in and release were barely controlled hisses of breath.

He stood, slowly, using the utmost of his self control to contain the rage when his hands were nearly shaking with it. “I am...truly disappointed to discover that this team is willing to use an innocent boy as a buffer between the world and its reputation.”

For a moment, before he turned away, he almost thought that he saw _him_ , perched on the table in front of him with his long, gangly legs swinging over the edge, a familiar image from all those years that Bruce had relented to let him sit in while a league meeting droned on. 

The image faded. 

He turned away, but paused to wheel a piercing glare at his seated teammates. “When you speak to the presses I suggest that you try to explain how it is possible that a fifteen year old boy has more integrity in him than does this entire facade of a Justice League.”

\+ - + - + - +

Bruce swept out of the conference room without another word or glance. 

The entire room was dumbstruck, and it took a few moments for Clark to gather himself enough to go after him.

Within an instant he had breezed into the hall, and he caught up to Bruce a few steps past the door. Bruce’s expressionless white lenses looked right through him, and then Bruce stepped around him as though he were an inanimate object obstructing his path. 

Clark wished that hadn’t hurt.

He moved just quickly enough to keep up with Bruce’s long, snapping pace. “Bruce,” he began, trying not to sound desperate, “please, you can’t just walk out now. I know this went badly, and I’m sorry, but you can’t--”

“You were very quiet tonight,” Bruce interrupted icily. 

Clark stared for a moment, guilt holding his tongue. “Diana was...” 

“You knew him better than all the others put together,” Bruce cut in again, and only then did he look Clark in the eyes. Clark felt himself wilt a little under the accusation in them. “Don’t tell me that you’ve lost faith in him too.”

“No, Bruce, I would never--I do believe in him, Bruce. He’s an amazing kid, I’d give anything for him and you _know_ that. I’m just trying to tell you that we need to communicate. All of us. That’s what a team does. I know they handled it badly and jumped to conclusions, but you can’t just give up on them like this. This is your team and--”

“No, Clark, it’s _your_ team.” That retort almost came out in a rasp, and Bruce had already looked away again. “Call me once they come to their senses and decide to stop scapegoating the victim of this situation.”

“That isn’t-- _Bruce_ \--”

Bruce vanished into the teleporter without a backward glance. 

Clark closed his eyes, counted slowly to ten and then back down to zero, and then released his breath as slowly and calmly as he could.

He turned on his heel and stalked back to the conference room at a human speed to allow himself to work off the edge of his temper.

But he could hear his teammates’ chattering as clearly as if he were in the room with him, and the subject set his teeth on edge. 

“But then...why _wasn’t_ Robin in Gotham?” Barry asked helplessly.

“Barry, please...” Diana sounded exhausted.

Hal’s voice broke in, and as Clark approached the sliding doors, he again began counting to ten. “We can’t just drop these questions, Diana. In that video Robin was even wearing that ‘R’ of his. If that doesn’t tell us something I don’t know what would. And as for Robin’s health...I mean, it’s not that I think Deathstroke’s a fun guy to live with, but what reason do we have to believe that Robin wasn’t there voluntarily?”

“Maybe you don’t need a reason,” Clark said, stalking through the conference room doors. “Maybe all you need is a little faith in a longtime friend, and just the _barest_ smidge of respect for a man grieving the loss of his only surviving _son_.”

Hal turned to look at him, openmouthed, but Clark’s gaze shifted from him to each of the other leaguers in turn.

Ollie shook his head with a quiet sigh. “I’m glad Roy wasn’t here to see this,” he muttered, a little bitterly. “He’s been worried sick.”

“Wally, too,” Barry added miserably. 

Diana stood still and somber, absorbed in her own thoughts, and the silence stretched on as they all did the same.

Barry broke it. “Hal, I can’t believe you threw Robin’s death in his face like that. He wasn’t just any sidekick, he was...was that one adopted? I...don’t think I ever asked.”

“All the more reason for him to know better.”

“This is beyond being wrong or right, Lantern,” Diana said sternly. “You prioritized your feelings over team unity.”

“Alright, alright,” Hal sighed, “I get it. I came on too strong, like always, right? But it’s not like I blame the kid--if I’d been in his shoes I’d probably have lost it years ago. And besides, Bats had it coming.”

Clark approached the table only to grip the back of his chair almost tightly enough to break it. “Well I hope getting that off your chest was worth it,” he said fiercely, “because we just lost the one League member who had a decent chance of finding Robin if he doesn’t want to be found. And we _were_ gathered here to help his son.”

“Yes we were,” said Diana, her eyes still weary, but her hands planted squarely on the table. “And we still are. But I must agree with one of the points that Lantern presented. In time we will need to address the public’s suspicions.”

Clark closed his eyes, his heart sinking, because he knew exactly what Diana was about to say. Worse, he wasn’t sure he could contradict it.

“If we deny the increasingly obvious truth that Deathstroke’s young accomplice is Robin, we lose their trust. If we admit to his identity but do not pursue him as we would a criminal our impartiality will be called into question. We can afford to delay this, but not inevitably.” She let out a long, carefully controlled breath. “We have only one choice, and Hera help me, I wish there was another way.”

\+ - + - + - +

He emerged from the teleport back into the Hall of Justice, and this time saw Donna and Wally with the Titans gathered around them in a conference of their own. The group had already turned to watch him, and six pairs of eyes fixed on him as he redirected his steps to approach them.

If the League couldn’t comprehend the inherent absurdity of the suspicion that Dick--that Robin would ever willingly join an a _ssassin_ , then he was left no choice but to seek out allies who could.

Both the former and present members of the Titans readily and eagerly agreed to help. The small entourage made its way through the sewers toward the former location of the bomb as well as the point of Robin’s departure, and under his direction they set about combing the tunnels inch by inch.

The search, though now performed with the very best of Cyborg’s tech as well as his own, uncovered nothing. Searching the tunnels from the point of Robin’s departure proved even less fruitful, even with Beast Boy’s attempts at catching his scent that proved useless among the pungent sewage and Raven’s futile attempts to feel Robin's presence.

To bypass the sewer water issue Batman had earlier asked Wonder Girl to call Aqualad to help their search. The girl had winced, probably at the prospect of assigning her friend such an unpleasant task, but she readily agreed.

Along with Aqualad, Roy Harper--Speedy--arrived some hours into the search, stared up at Batman in his red and yellow archer’s costume and demanded, rather than offered, to help with the investigation.

Batman shot a frustrated look at Wonder Girl, who was clearly biting back a grin. She raised her hands defensively. “I promise I didn’t call him!”

“Yeah, about that,” Speedy cut in. “How come I had to hear about this get-together from Wally, huh? Since when did I become the team member to get snubbed for invitations?”

Batman bit back a sigh. “Green Arrow--”

“Hey, Ollie doesn’t get a say in Titans business, okay? He--hey, Wonderdoll wait up!” He broke off running after Wonder Girl down the tunnel. 

The dark tunnels devoured precious hours, again cutting him off from outside communication, but there was still so much ground to cover. He had been all too happy to evade any attempted contact from the League, but guilt over leaving Alfred completely in the dark about his activities since leaving the cave that morning finally drove him to return briefly to the surface.

He crawled out of the manhole and slipped into a nearby alley before activating his comm. “Alfred. I--”

_“Oh, thank God, Sir. I have been trying to contact you for the past hour, and--your witnesses from the HIVE...they’ve been_ murdered _.”_

. . .

The five kills had been executed swiftly. Neatly. But despite what the circumstances could have led him to believe, poison had never been part of Deathstroke’s repertoire.

The last surviving witness, the torture victim, had evidently been saved for last. He was still breathing when Batman again broke into his hospital room with disconcerting ease despite the increased security. The man was still unconscious, but twitching slightly, with thick, beading sweat dripping from his forehead into his hair.

Batman pressed a gloved hand over the man’s mouth. He jerked awake. Two wide, bloodshot eyes locked on him and the man writhed and fought uselessly to scream through the hand. 

“Less than two hours ago your allies were assassinated by the HIVE,” Batman said, his voice low, but too guttural to be a whisper. The man’s pathetic struggles only worsened. “Answer a few questions and I will ensure that you don’t--”

The man’s eyes rolled back in his head. The writhing evolved into convulsions, and Batman became suddenly aware that the man’s skin under his gloves was unnaturally hot. Suddenly that made horrifying sense. 

He whipped out a batarang and sliced through the IV line connecting the bag of fluids to the man’s arm. How long had it been feeding the poison into his system? The machine beside the bed was already beeping an automatic alarm.

Help would come too late. 

“Did you see Robin?” he demanded, releasing the man to moan freely. “The boy with Deathstroke!”

The man’s rolling eyes briefly flickered over his, confused and probably delirious. “...R...Renegade?” he gasped.

. . .

Until the cave analysis of the poison sample was complete, all he had was a suspicion. One that he could confirm through another, more readily available means. 

He hacked into hospital security footage to search through the hours prior to his own entrance, and there at last he found the assassin: a dark haired nurse, glancing both ways as she entered the room.

She pulled a long syringe out of her pocket, and as she injected it into the bag of fluids, Batman could just make out her nails--long, sharp, and painted green. With the job finished so easily, she turned to leave the room. The lower half of her face was covered by a hospital mask, but her cat-like eyes flickered up toward the camera, and he recognized the assassin's distinctive matching emerald: Cheshire.

Batman had vanished by the time the medics poured into the room, but carefully out of sight, he had watched.

The man had died within minutes. 

And still, Batman had a new, _wrong_ name that chanted through his mind until it lost meaning in the din. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Lot is going to happen in the next chapter (including swords and a certain dead brother), so stay tuned for next month!


	6. The Wedge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this is the chapter where things really start moving. Jason might have something to do with that. :)  
> Please let me know what you think!
> 
> (Note that while the first portion of this chapter circles around a certain violent act, the violence itself isn't graphic.)

Dick gritted his teeth and used his aching back to leverage the unconscious man’s weight out through the open window. The unfortunate Mr. James Beauford tumbled down into a puddle with his zip-tied wrists and ankles twisted awkwardly behind his back, and Dick dropped down beside him just as the restroom door inside swung open. He crouched, still and quiet in the dark, and waited. 

A new wave of icy late-autumn rain pelted his hunched head and shoulders. The men soon moved on, but he didn’t. He just stayed, crouched and staring at the crumpled man who reeked of alcohol from the bar inside. Thankfully he was still unconscious from the blow Dick had given him. But Dick was running out of time. Time to act, time to think--

He needed to think.

He stood, hauled Beauford’s weight over one bruised shoulder, and bit back a groan of pain. Slade would be listening. He was always listening. Dick drew a steadying breath and began to drag his burden step by laborious step down the alley. It was too much, too soon. And Slade must have known that. After all, this was a punishment, wasn’t it? 

Finally, he launched his new grappling hook into the nearest rooftop and let it carry both of their weights to the top.

He lowered the man onto the flat cement rooftop, flicked on his night vision, and scanned the surrounding buildings. Not a single window or camera in sight. 

His heart was pounding against his ribcage. Water streamed from his hair to slip down his neck, and under his kevlar uniform his skin was soaked, clammy, and shivering. The weapon strapped against his back almost seemed to burn. 

...And he had run out of time to think.

He had the privacy necessary for his...‘assignment’. Their proximity to the bar wouldn’t make a difference with the gag... 

Sputtering gasps at his feet snapped him back to reality, _and_ to the realization that he hadn’t even put the gag on. 

Beauford locked eyes on him and opened his mouth to scream. Dick dropped to clamp a hand over the struggling man’s mouth while he grabbed the tape from his belt. He took it in his teeth, tore off a chunk, and looked again at the man’s wide, terrified eyes. 

_“That was sloppy.”_

Dick flinched at the voice in his ear. He swallowed. Muffled pleas were trapped under his hand, but he didn’t give them a chance to escape before pressing the tape over the man’s mouth. 

_“It’s time. Get it over with, Renegade.”_

Without thinking, Dick’s fingers twitched up toward the sword hilt behind his right shoulder. He stopped himself just in time. 

. . .

_Slade was approaching, and Dick eyed him warily. He was carrying a sword that was as long as Dick’s arm and sheathed in the same orange and black as Renegade's uniform._

_Slade offered it to him, hilt first. “Take it. It’s yours.”_

_Dick stared at it, for a moment seeing Slade's bloodied sword. But he was still exhausted, too exhausted to waste time protesting just yet. He reached for it--only for Slade to pull it back._

_Dick looked up sharply, confused until he saw Slade’s expectant expression._

_Biting back an irritated sigh, Dick gave him what he was waiting for. “Thank you. Sir.”_

_“You’re welcome,” Slade returned in a mimicry of Dick’s stilted formality, and handed him the sword. “You’ll be needing this later tonight.”_

_Dick’s fingers froze over the hilt._

_“I’ve arranged a contract for you. Your very own.”_

_His fingers curled painfully tight around the hard leather._

_“Your target is James Beauford, a drug runner who was caught skimming a little off the top of his merchandise. His boss decided to employ someone to make an example of him, and that someone is going to be you. Congratulations.”_

_The sword began to slip through his suddenly slack fingers. “You want me to--”_

_“I want you to make an example of him,” Slade interrupted. “Your employer would be more than content with a head dropped off on his doorstep, but I could persuade him to settle for a maiming. You’re leaving in an hour. Kneecap the sorry piece of scum and we’ll call it a night.”_

_Dick worked the words around in his mouth before getting them out with difficulty. “There are other ways,” he managed. “Trust me, if you want me to scare or...humiliate him, I could--”_

_“--But I didn’t ask you to, did I? ...Did_ _I?”_

_“...No, sir.”_

. . .

Two nights ago Dick had said that mercenaries didn’t need to kill. 

Slade was mocking him. 

This work was dirt-low for any mercenary--whatever Slade’s client must have paid him would be less than pennies to Slade, who would never have looked twice at the offer if not for Dick’s involvement. 

...But if Slade hadn’t picked up the contract, would the man at his feet already be dead? Was this...some kind of mercy? 

He swallowed revulsion at the nonsensical thought. Beauford might never fully recover, _and this didn’t need to happen_.

The hand that should have been reaching for his sword curled into a fist at his chest.

 _“This isn’t the time to act squeamish, Renegade.”_ Slade’s voice had turned hard, clipped. _“Considering your former line of work, you're running short on excuses. Pull yourself together now and convince me that it wasn’t a mistake to spare the Titans. That is an_ order _.”_

One man’s legs versus the lives of his friends.

Dick’s hand reached up of its own volition and pulled the sword from its sheath. With the weapon in hand he looked again at the man at his feet, drenched and trying desperately to squirm away--terrified of him. Dick’s heart was thundering like a hammer against his rib cage. 

James Beauford ran drugs. He helped ruin lives.

...but this didn’t feel anything like justice.

“I could pay ten times your client’s offer, sir,” he said. He didn’t press, didn’t plead. If there was any chance of Slade agreeing, showing desperation could only lower his chances. 

_“I don’t believe this,”_ Slade hissed. _“Is this why he got rid of you? Too soft, even for_ him _.”_

Dick’s breath caught furiously in his chest. “That...that is _not_ \--”

_“Then prove me wrong. Assume your position.”_

Dick gripped the sword hilt with both hands. He tried to breathe. 

Slade hadn’t supplied him with anything that could function as a blindfold because he wanted Beauford to see his attacker. To identify him, so that everyone would know. That meant the Titans would find out. And Bruce...

Bruce would find out too.

He cringed selfishly at the thought.

_Think, Grayson--thinkthinkthink--_

What would Batman do? But Batman would never be in this position in the first place. Batman would have found a way out by now, or would have evaded Slade’s trap altogether. 

Bruce must already be disappointed.

Dick planted his boot on the dealer’s _(don’t think of the name, don’t look at the face)_ zip tied ankles. He leaned forward heavily, ignoring the dealer's struggles and choked whimpering to hold the legs in place. He lifted the sword, business end down, and faltered, as though something, anything, _anyone,_ might intervene. 

_If anyone’s listening, now would be a good time. Please, just--_

_“You’re not going to make me come down there and do the job myself, are you?”_

The dealer was trying to scream again, shaking his head vigorously, pleadingly.

He would heal, probably.

Hopefully. 

Dick bit back a pointless apology and drove the blade _down_. He repeated the act on the other knee with more difficulty--the dealer wouldn't stop buckling and twisting under his boot--but after a few more moments, the act was done.

He stepped back and watched Beauford writhe and scream mutely into the tape gag, tears merging with the rain that was pouring into his eyes and nose.

Dick looked away.

_“Good boy.”_

The sword dropped from his hand. Clattered into puddles that it infused with dark accusing swirls. Dick tried to breathe. He smelled copper, and he couldn’t breathe, and he didn’t know if it was anger, or...

Another shudder ran down his shoulders, back, and legs. 

The man needed a hospital. He needed one soon, and....Dick suddenly felt very, very sick. He lifted his face to catch the rain and tried to gulp for air while his chest continually constricted against it, directing his attention toward anything but the man beside him...and anything but Bruce.

...Kory. She...had always seemed to glow when she was happy. Dick tried to remember what she had looked like in those moments exactly, and then he remembered that for a long time he had tried to avoid them. Kory had never been more distracting than when she was happy.

Maybe that was why she couldn’t distract him now.

He blinked up at the sky, and tried not to think of Bruce. Night was fading, its deep navy bled into by a dull reddish hue; his gaze drifted down to the building opposite, where a silhouette stood stark black against it.

Dick recoiled. Adrenaline shot into his limbs, his heart leapt into his throat, and he was a beat away from bolting in the opposite direction before his eyes registered that the shape’s dark, swaying cape did not belong to Gotham’s guardian.

“Never thought I’d catch Robin kneecapping the scum of New York City,” called a familiar synthesized voice. 

The last time he had heard that disguised voice it had been Red X’s. _His_. And immediately Dick's fear transformed into an equally intense, unreasoning rage. 

He fired his grapple toward the figure. It flashed out of sight before the line finished drawing him up to the rooftop’s misty jungle of pipes, generators, and chimneys.

“What do you want?” Dick snarled, desperately throwing his gaze to the right and left.

“To help you,” the thief’s voice answered.

It came from behind. Dick whirled, but there was nothing there but mist and shadowed structures.

 _“Renegade,”_ Slade snapped into his ear. _“Who is that?”_

“I came to--” the voice began again, and this time Dick lunged toward it; the thief wearing his suit evaded him neatly, “...to _warn_ you that your boss’s client isn’t what he seems,” he finished, sounding irritated. 

Dick’s body screamed against the movement, but he didn’t ease up on the pursuit until he snagged a fistful of cape. He yanked and sent the thief bowling backward. “Who are you and what are you doing with my--”

The thief caught himself in a handspring and drove a kick squarely into Dick’s jaw. Dick staggered, dazed for just an instant. 

And then the thief was gone, gone, _gone_. 

. . .

_What...was that?_

Every last drop of anger leached out of him and left him cold.

Staring at everything and nothing, Dick could still see it. The shadow against the sky, staring down at him in judgement. He’d lost it. Completely. But...someone had watched--watched him do... _that_. Someone who knew too much and cared too little. 

_“Report, Renegade_. _”_

He flinched at Slade’s voice, and then suddenly he could feel the rain on his shoulders again, and see the smoggy hint of the coming sunrise. As awareness of his surroundings returned, so did some of his anger, the only warmth left in his gut. “I lost him,” he bit out.

“Well your comm certainly isn’t broken,” Slade said--and Dick spun around to face him. Slade finished swinging himself up onto the roof, and as he straightened, leveled Dick with a _look_. “At least that would have explained your otherwise inexcusable failure to respond.”

Dick’s hands curled into tight fists at his side, but he said nothing. 

Once Slade seemed satisfied that he’d got his point across he began scanning the distance through what looked like heat-sensitive binoculars. “I see that you equipped that Red X costume with thermal dampeners,” he said dryly. “How very thorough of you.”

And then Slade asked how Dick had known the boy in the suit. Dick said that the boy must have stolen it, and then, because he had so stupidly made it obvious that he _had_ seen him before, he was forced to admit that he had first seen the thief during the previous contract.

Evidently forgetting due to the circumstances surrounding the prior event wasn’t sufficient excuse for the slight. It was ‘unacceptable’, and Renegade was ‘not to withhold information or ignore orders over the comms under any circumstances’. Dick stared into the water rings forming in the puddle at his feet; Slade asked whether he understood. ( _...Yes sir, sorry sir..._ )

Slade wanted to know what the thief had wanted; Dick repeated the message in a dry monotone, but it sounded even more baffling than the first time around. Which client couldn’t be trusted? Beauford's current employer? There was no conceivable reason for the thief to care, let alone for him to think that Deathstroke would. 

Slade said something about spending too much time in the open, and then he was turning away, already. Dick snapped back to the present. “Give me a minute, uh...sir.”

Slade turned his head, just slightly. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“The sword. I...left it on the roof.” And he had left something--someone--else there, too. He saw the disapproving glare Slade was giving him, and dropped his gaze. “Sorry about that, sir.”

Beauford didn’t have a blindfold. If Deathstroke wanted to stay out of the man’s testimony, and Dick knew that he did, Dick must either fetch the sword alone or abandon it. 

In the pause that followed Dick might have seen a muscle tic under the mask on Slade’s jaw. Finally, in a clipped tone that clearly resented the choice, Slade said, “I’ll be in the car,” and left.

Dick’s rib cage was screaming by the end of the second roof crossing, and it had taken far more time and deliberate effort than it should have to reach the place where he had left both his sword and Beauford on the rooftop. 

As soon as the man locked eyes on him he began struggling wildly, but with both his wrists and ankles still bound it was of course useless. Any words of comfort Dick could have given would be heard over the comm, so as he crouched a few feet away to pick up the sword he could only approach Beauford with his hands spread in a mimicry of a reassuring gesture. But the weapon in his hand produced the exact opposite reaction, and Dick needed to forcibly turn the man over on his stomach in order to scrape the sword's bloody edge against the zip-tie binding his wrists. 

Once the hands were free he moved on to the ankles, and by the time Beauford was capable of ripping off his own tape gag and screaming for help at the top of his lungs Dick had already cleared the building. 

Slade said nothing when Dick settled stiffly into the backseat, but the mirrors reflected his tightly pressed lips and furrowed brow. He knew. 

Slade started the car before breaking the silence. “You sheathed your sword,” he said flatly. “If you didn’t wipe off the blade, and I doubt that you did, you’ll need to bleach the inside of your sheath. Just wrap it and put it in the back.”

Slade started driving, and Dick felt around in the compartment under the backseat until he found a white cloth. He drew the sword from its sheath, and glanced at it just long enough to see that the rain had definitely not been enough to clean it before hastily wrapping it in the cloth and shoving it back underneath.

The car swerved. Dick, who hadn’t even buckled yet, almost tumbled off the seat. “We have a shadow,” Slade said shortly. “Do you see anything?”

Dick struggled to right himself and looked out the rear window incredulously. The thief couldn’t possibly be that stupid. 

The buildings that loomed over the dark back streets were distant silhouettes, but something, maybe a cape, maybe a stray scrap of paper, flicked briefly against the distant glow of streetlights. 

And then the shape of a head and shoulders ducked in and out of view.

“One of the buildings on the left, roughly five hundred feet behind us,” Dick reported, his stomach twisting with alarm. Clearly the kid _was_ that stupid.

Slade wheeled the car into a series of turns that Dick knew even he would have been hard pressed to track. The shadow didn’t appear again.

. . .

Dick sat, staring at nothing, with nothing better to do than to replay the night over in his mind. Time lost meaning, and he was startled when they finally pulled into the warehouse. He would have stolen one last glance at the paling but polluted sky before the door lowered behind them, but they were already descending into the garage.

Slade parked and immediately stepped out to start unpacking the trunk compartment. Stiffly, Dick stepped out of the car and started past Slade toward the lift.

“Forgetting something?”

Dick halted midstep, and turned just in time to catch the sword Slade tossed at him. _His_ sword. His hands brushed spots of red bleeding through the cloth still wrapped around the blade. He shifted his grip and looked away.

Slade brushed past him, and together they stepped onto the lift. “I’ll meet you in the training room,” he said, and stepped out ahead of him.

The usual, then.

Dick didn’t bother changing before heading down the hall. He was already through the double doors before he realized the sword was still in his hand. 

Slade wasn’t there yet. After a moment’s hesitation he grabbed a rag from the work table and started scrubbing at the blade. A patch, near the tip, had hardened to a rusty-red crust. He scrubbed fiercely in circular motions, reversed, repeated, again and again until a hand closed over his wrist.

Dick jerked back, heart thumping wildly as he stared into Slade’s unmasked face. 

Slade. Dick should have heard him coming. He would have, but...only now did Dick realize that his other hand was still shaking. He balled it into a fist. 

“Tell me what you felt,” Slade said, still bent over beside him at the table and holding his wrist. Belatedly, Dick considered wrenching it away, but the look in Slade’s eye--steady and piercing--kept him cautiously still. He could only stare back at him blankly. “When you did the job,” Slade clarified. “What did you feel?”

The _‘job’_. 

And just like that, the reality of it all started clawing at his insides all over again. “I just...did it,” he answered tightly.

Slade scoffed. He pulled back as he released Dick’s wrist, but didn’t straighten. “Your heart started hammering the moment you stepped out of the car. Try again. And answer honestly--I’ll recognize a lie.”

Dick’s stomach churned at the reminder of how closely Slade was monitoring him. “I felt anger,” he spat out, eyes flashing toward Slade before returning to the blade, “...and disgust.” _at myself_ , he almost added.

Slade said nothing, and Dick tensed for the possible reaction. 

“...and?” Slade prompted. Dick’s gloved hands closed around the blade so tightly that it bit into the kevlar. “Look at me and answer, Renegade.” 

The patience in Slade’s voice was ebbing. Dick looked at him, and answered through bared teeth. “ _Guilt_.”

“And _that_ ,” Slade said, “is just another word for fear.”

Dick blinked.

Hadn’t he done it out of fear, and feared doing it? Fear for his friends, for himself...and for the man at his feet. He hadn’t wanted to do it, had been afraid to do it, but it had been terror that made him drive the blade down.

“Fear of repercussion, of accountability,” Slade continued. “And that’s more than understandable, with your upbringing many would have fared far worse. But all you needed was the opportunity to work through that fear alone.”

There was something new in Slade’s face, in his voice: a complete conviction in what he was saying that jarred Dick to his core.

Dick jolted to his feet, at eye level with Slade, now, who was still leaning over the table. “Enough with the mind games,” he snapped. “If you’re trying to tell me something, just say it.”

Slade only straightened and gestured to the sword that was still in Dick’s hand. “Take that to the mat. Let’s see how you handle it.”

While Dick was still reeling from the abrupt subject change, Slade stepped onto the mat. He reached back, unhooked his sword, sheath and all--and set it on the floor. Dick approached cautiously with his own sword held in a painfully tight grip.

Slade pulled his mask back over his head before he spoke again. “If you want me to say it plainly, here it is: a soldier learns to put their personal perceptions aside. In the field you focus on the mission alone, and any distraction is a hazard.”

Dick scoffed incredulously. “So your point is that I need to stop _caring_?” 

“My ‘point’ is that there are more deserving things to care about.”

“You can’t change what I think of all this,” Dick slashed the blade in Slade’s direction, “--or what I think of _you_. I’m not your soldier.”

“That’s right.” A hint of a mocking smile entered Slade’s tone. “You still consider yourself the Dark Knight’s dutiful little squire, don’t you? We’ll have to do something about that.” 

Dick’s grip tightened even further around the hilt; Slade spread his hands, and beckoned him. “What’s taking you so long, kid? I’m not even armed.”

Dick lunged. “Stop--” he roared, slashing at Slade’s torso “-- _calling_ me that!” Slade dodged with a laugh. Dick immediately feinted a jab, and as the man bowed backward to evade it he pivoted, his blade swiping at Slade’s ankles. Slade jumped. Dick pitched sideways just in time as the kick rushed toward his head--brushing mere inches past his cheek. He raised his right forearm to deflect it, to unbalance Slade, but Slade was twisting and Dick’s arm slammed down, _hard_. 

His cry of pain caught in his throat, and he just barely saved his arm from further damage by reeling back toward the edge of the mat. Between labored breaths he took advantage of the brief respite to wincingly switch his sword to the other hand.

“In your mind, you’re still fighting with a staff,” Slade said matter of factly, making no move to pursue him. “While that method can be effective, you’re already beginning to see its drawbacks.”

Too deliberate, too unbalanced. Too _slow_. Depending on the other end of a staff that wasn’t there, and Slade was infuriatingly right.

Dick threw himself off the mat toward his opponent, and only touched it again to leap at Slade from a new angle without space to breathe between them. But Slade dodged, deflected, again and again and again with ease, and Dick’s initial rush of anger was giving way to newly agitated injuries, to aches and broken bones that made him clumsy. He was tiring too quickly--and then he overextended himself. 

Slade’s elbow rammed into his temple. 

“Are you _trying_ to bore me?” The unaffected ease in Slade’s tone was just another jab, and Dick’s head was still ringing with the blow and frustrated pride when he lunged again. “Predictable,” Slade barked as he evaded again. “Disappointing. You’re better than this--better than you _want_ to be, and I’ve seen how little pressure it takes to bypass that morality complex. There’s a killer’s steel in your blood, kid--and deny it as much as you like, but you’re capable of _anything_.”

“Shut _UP!_ ” Dick roared. He closed the distance between them, seeing red.

“And there it is,” Slade said, a grin in his voice. 

Dick ignored him and advanced, everything but Slade fading from his periphery, and soon he sensed that Slade was reacting to his attacks rather than anticipating them.

And then, for a split instant, he was out of Slade’s sights. Slade’s blind side was far from vulnerable, but as he narrowly evaded Slade’s defensive whirling strike he was already pushing off the ground and poised to thrust his blade through Slade’s good eye. 

The fraction of a second lingered like comprehension between the two of them before Slade’s raised arm deflected the sword thrust and the other snapped out to grab Dick’s wrist, wrench the weapon out of his grip, and slam him to the ground.

Slade straightened, studying the blade in his hands with a kind of curiosity. “Well, _that_ was new. Maybe you’ve learned something already.”

Then Slade looked down at him. Dick was still on his hands and knees, braced to move if Slade attacked, but he waited, staring at Slade unblinking as the gravity of what he had just tried and failed to do sank into his bones.

Slade’s expression under the mask twisted. “But you’re afraid again,” he said, his voice dropping into a growl, “--and not of me. In some ways you really are still a child.”

The blade flashed out before Dick could react, slashing across his left brow and into his mask. He reeled backwards with his hand slapped over his eye, fearing for more than the wound until he knew that the mask was still in place. 

The wound barely had time to register its sting before Slade was after him. Slade’s reach, far longer than his own, held Dick at bay as he struggled to escape it. Blood trickled down into his eye, hampered his depth perception, and he never had a chance to take the offensive before he was flat on his back with his own blade poking into his throat.

Dick stared past the blade at Slade, panting for breath and trying to blink away both sweat and blood until Slade finally lowered the sword and broke the silence. 

“Stand to attention.”

Dick stared up at him incredulously. 

Huffing a sigh, Slade grabbed his upper arm and hauled him to his feet. Dick tried twisting out of his grip, but the hold only tightened, and then the cool tip of the blade was resting against his chin. 

He stilled. The adrenaline rush had already faded, leaving his limbs leaden, shaky, and useless for any further resistance.

“Stand erect,” Slade ordered. 

Dick’s hesitation was met with a slap from the flat of the blade. With his cheek stinging from it, he flashed a glare at Slade--that was interrupted by the swordpoint that jabbed none too gently into his other cheek. Dick heard the unspoken threat present in the needle-sharp pressure, and before he realized what he was doing his spine had gone stiff and straight as a rod.

Dick couldn’t see Slade’s face, could only hear his voice that was still stern and hard--maybe hard enough to follow through with the threat. Dick nearly relaxed anyway, consequences be damned, but...

What did it say about him if he was more willing to cripple a man than to sacrifice another drop of pride?

“Straighten those shoulders.”

He did.

“I didn’t hear a ‘yes sir’, Renegade.”

With burning cheeks he swallowed back his anger, and his pride. “Yes sir.”

Slade’s grip pinched painfully around his already aching arm. “What was that?” he asked. His relaxed tone was as hard and abrasive as gravel.

“Yes _sir_ ,” Dick snapped.

Slade nodded and then frowned, scrutinizing the side of Dick’s face--or more specifically, Dick realized, the gash over his eye. 

“You shouldn’t need stitches,” Slade said at last, pulling back. He lowered the blade and released Dick’s arm. Dick resisted the desperately relieved urge to relax. “At ease,” Slade said, now standing erect himself. Dick tried to remember what ‘at ease’ consisted of, and after a moment he relaxed his shoulders and clasped his hands behind his back. 

Slade turned the sword in his hand and offered Dick the hilt. “Good work tonight. And not just the contract.” Before reaching to take it Dick glanced at Slade’s face, and in the moment before the man brushed past him to make for the hall, he just might have seen a hint of a smile through the mask. 

Dick was, finally, alone. 

Something hot and stinging pressed behind his eyes. He blinked furiously against it and tried to swipe the blood out of his eye with the back of his hand--uselessly, thanks to the mask.

After a while, it occurred to him that he still needed to clean his sword. With robotic movements, he returned to the table. He scrubbed his own blood as well as Beauford’s from the blade, and left it there. 

He went to his room, to the sink. He carefully rinsed away the blood both over and under his mask, out of his eye as well as the tracks it had made down his green and blue-mottled cheek. He left the mirror as soon as it was gone. 

His hands still smelled like copper. 

His gaze drifted down to his boots, and he noticed flecks of blood. They weren’t his. He ripped off the boots, and then his costume. He showered. The lukewarm water kept him from lingering, or from feeling any cleaner.

He could still smell copper.

Under the bed covers with the lights off, he curled into a tight ball. He bit down on the first knuckle of his thumb, hard enough to draw blood, and fought back a scream. 

\+ - + - + - +

Crouched and silent in the dark beside the just barely cracked door, Renegade waited for a sound other than his own breathing while _sincerely_ hoping that one would never come. 

His second legitimate contract and already he had learned to dread everything they entailed. 

It had only taken one more daily routine that passed in a blur before Slade was dragging him halfway across the city again, and this time he had even less information. So Dick didn’t know what kind of shady business Deathstroke’s new client was running that had him turning to mercenaries to guard his facility against possible intruders, but he wasn’t feeling optimistic. 

The client suspected that the building was being monitored by unidentified but probably hostile individuals, and that was pretty much the extent of the intel granted him, though Slade had been generous enough to supply Dick with the building layout to memorize in the few hours remaining before the stakeout. Deathstroke was staying out of it again, leaving Dick alone in the building until morning--unless the intruder showed his face before then.

He stifled a yawn and shifted into a more uncomfortable position to keep himself awake. 

He stilled, and listened.

There was a soft sound, like a door swinging on its hinge. Dick rose slowly, listening carefully for footsteps.

_“Did you hear something, Renegade? If so, nod.”_

Dick nodded, distractedly wondering whether there were motion sensors in the suit as well. He crept closer to the sound, down the hall along the wall of glass that overlooked the city from twenty-six stories up, and there he saw that one window, smaller, and designed to be opened only from the inside, was ajar. 

Frigid but soft wind whispered through the opening, almost but not quite masking the soft exhale from directly above him. 

Dick pitched forward just as a shadow dropped from the ceiling and he rolled to face it in a fighting stance. He froze. 

“Hey, bird-boy,” said Red X. 

Dick bit back a curse and swung out a kick at the thief’s knees, but the thief was already springing back out of range. “Get out of here,” Dick snarled. “ _Now._ ”

“Sure thing,” the thief said lightly, and dodged another attack intended to herd him back toward the open window. “--just as soon as I make sure that you haven’t gone deaf.”

The thief pivoted, his cape completely shielding his body from view until it was too late to anticipate the kick. 

It was vicious. Precise. 

And driven _squarely_ into his fractured rib cage.

Dick’s vision bleached white; the next thing he was aware of beyond breathless, blinding pain was his back slamming into the floor. 

It was sheer panicked instinct (triggered by the sharp curse above him) that jolted his body into self-preservative action. A backward somersault carried him back onto the balls of his feet, again facing the thief.

The other boy hadn’t moved an inch. He was staring down at him almost uncertainly, relaxing out of his fighting stance. 

“I...didn’t mean to--” he faltered, biting off whatever he had been about to say.

 _“Don’t lose him again, Renegade,”_ Slade’s voice snapped. Dick flinched, but not from the pain. Every passing minute lowered the thief’s chances of getting out of this in one piece, and Dick had just run out of options. 

Hesitantly, the thief gestured to Dick’s face. “Hey, uh...Robin? That scar. It wasn’t there yester--”

Dick kicked into the thief’s jaw mid-sentence. “Like you care,” he snapped. 

The thief stumbled to regain his footing, and Dick was already coming at him again. “Maybe I shouldn’t--” the thief deflected a punch, “-- _jerk_.”

Dick was breathing short, pained bursts, and the stamina that was pushing him through the pain was burning out quickly, but he just needed to shut the kid up before he got himself killed. The thief was finally edging back toward the window, but that wasn’t an option anymore. Between another kick and a dodge, Dick maneuvered himself between the thief and his escape route. 

“Like I said last night,” the thief continued, “Deathstroke’s client has been lying and if you don’t--” 

A knee to the stomach made the thief break off with a gagging noise, before he swiped back and forced Dick to retreat. 

The thief clutched his stomach, his groan turning into something like a growl. “Okay jackass, you’re just gonna have to trust me on this.”

He charged for the window. Dick braced to stop him--but he had _not_ braced for being tackled around the waist and tumbling out the window.

They plummeted toward dizzyingly streaking street lights. The force of the tackle again turned Dick’s own ribs against him, stabbing into his chest like searing knives. The lights began to spin, and darken--and a hand caught his wrist in a deathgrip. 

...It was the thief. Something halted their descent, with just enough give that Dick’s shoulder wasn’t ripped from its socket. He barely managed to blink away the bleariness that had very nearly killed him before the grappling hook finished carrying them to the top of the neighboring building. 

Dick rolled to a stop on his hands and knees. He stared at the other boy and found that, for once, confusion had rendered him speechless.

The thief just huffed and turned away to crouch and peer over the edge of the building. “You’ve gotten sloppy.” 

That...was an unexpectedly trusting gesture. After a beat of hesitation, Dick took advantage of his first opportunity to survey the thief. Judging by the boy’s lean, lanky build, he must be around Dick’s age. Maybe younger. He was well trained, considering...not to mention clever. “You were just trying to distract me, weren’t you?” Dick said at last, and then frowned. “You’re protecting someone. Who?”

The thief just gestured in the direction of the facility he was still watching. “Look for yourself.”

A muffled explosion rattled the windows of the other building. Dick glimpsed a flash of green through the windows of the floor they had just fallen from, and he had just enough time to think of how Slade was going to kill him for not noticing the other intruders before more than half the windows along the twenty-sixth floor shattered in a neon green blast.

The boy grabbed his arm and yanked him down flat beside him on the roof. “Stay out of sight,” he hissed.

But Dick knew who was coming long before she swept through the new opening. 

_Kory_.

She hovered just outside the building, and Dick noticed that she held a... _person_ under each arm. He could just barely make out the violet hair and skin of one and the inhuman anatomy of the other. Aliens, he realized suddenly, and both of them were clad in the same hospital gown that stood stark white against Kory’s bronze skin.

Wailing sirens signalled the arrival of several police cars that were already screeching to a halt on the street below. Starfire lowered herself and her charges down to meet the same cars that Dick suddenly noticed Cyborg was approaching on foot. Once Starfire had released her charges on the ground she returned to where more extraterrestrials of varied races were waiting, clustered around the shattered windows. This time she was accompanied by Beast Boy’s sweeping green Pterodactyl wings and Raven’s spectral self.

The puzzle pieces clicked together, and Dick’s heart sank. 

Was it a trafficking ring? Experiments on extraterrestrial captives? Whatever it was, the Teen Titans must have infiltrated it by taking advantage of Kory’s Tamaranean heritage...and Dick had almost tried to stop them.

“You’re welcome,” the thief whispered.

\--and broke off with a choked gasp, yanked backwards.

Dick twisted and leapt to his feet to see Deathstroke with the front of the Red X costume fisted in his grip. The boy’s feet were dangling a good foot above the ground, and he was being held at almost eye level to Slade.

“Your thief is shorter than I expected,” Slade said to Dick. “More of a troublemaker, too. Most thieves don’t feed information to two opposing parties in a conflict without expecting some form of compensation.”

Mercifully, the boy was apparently smart enough to know not to struggle, and he just hung limply in Slade's grip.

“M’just a...good samaritan,” he choked out; the cape was tightened like a vise around his throat, “...who knew that you didn’t sign up to be muscle for an alien trafficking racket.”

Slade continued to glare intently at the boy, whose position was looking increasingly uncomfortable. Dick looked on, heart rate quickening as he tried to measure just how close the kid was to exhausting Slade’s patience. _Too_ close, definitely. 

“So,” the boy continued breathlessly, “...this is how you’re thanking me for saving your sidekick’s ass? Cool. That’s cool. I was just d...doin’ my duty...lookin’ out for a fellow...teenaged...miscreant...”

“He was telling the truth yesterday, sir,” Dick interjected, his voice loud and sharp to his own ears. Slade turned to look at him. The look was appraising, and without thinking Dick straightened under it. “Your client was withholding information.”

Dick suddenly noticed that the boy was staring at him too. The flippant facade was gone, replaced by a strange stiffness. Dick resolutely ignored him in favor of returning Slade’s steady gaze. 

Slade’s gaze slid back to the boy in his grip, who he lowered until his feet again touched the ground. But he didn’t let go. “Make yourself scarce,” he said, but then yanked the thief closer. “But if I ever catch you trying to follow us again, I’ll shoot you myself.”

After a beat, Red X responded. “Gotcha.”

Slade released him suddenly, and X stumbled backward. Slade turned to face Dick, clearly signalling to X that it was time to leave, but the boy locked eyes with Dick for a long moment before he leapt off the other end of the roof. Dick relaxed fractionally, already breathing easier now that he was safely out of sight.

“Our business is finished here,” Slade said, already half-turned to leave. “Come on.”

“Wait,” Dick said impulsively, and Slade paused. “You agree that--I mean, you wouldn’t knowingly associate with...whatever that facility has been doing?”

Slade’s chest rose and fell with a long exhale, and he gazed down at the building in question. “I wouldn’t knowingly associate with traffickers,” he said at last. “This case may involve extraterrestrials, but technicalities aside our client still withheld information from me, and that is never acceptable. Now, _come_. I have a personal appointment to arrange tonight.”

Before Dick followed he looked once behind him, and he just might have seen a flicker of tattered cape vanish around the corner of the adjoining building.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a short comic for a scene from the middle of this chapter, and [it's here.](https://chief-of-restless-hearts.tumblr.com/post/640066001712611328/you-cant-change-what-i-think-of-all-this-dick/)  
> (And I almost forgot--a long time ago I posted art based off the end of the chapter, so you can find that [here](https://chief-of-restless-hearts.tumblr.com/post/185850472383?is_related_post=1#notes/))


	7. Liars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And we return to our regularly scheduled traumatized Robins.

It had been a waste of time after all. Dick had scaled the nearly ceiling-high stack of storage crates in hope that a vantage point might shield him from battery-powered lamplight and curious stares, but one of the new client’s two bodyguards kept glancing up at him anxiously. 

Dick tilted his head and gave a little wave along with a needle-sharp grin to the man, who hastily looked away.

Deathstroke had been speaking to the client, a wiry woman with a seemingly permanent scowl, for several minutes. Something about destroying a competitor’s weapon cache. 

Dick’s hand wandered idly to the new sheath strapped to his left thigh. He drew out the knife and studied it. The ribbed hilt was striped orange and black; the blade was long, narrow, but double-edged and needle-sharp. It was one of a pair, with its twin strapped to his other leg. 

He balanced it on his forefinger until it toppled and fell. He tossed it, catching the blade and hilt in turns. 

Their client was getting agitated. “I don’t like this,” she growled. “Never did like associating with mercenaries.” Her head snapped up, and she jabbed a finger in Dick’s direction. “--Hey, you back there! I don’t remember hiring you.”

“The boy is with me,” Slade said. 

“The kid got a name?” she snapped at him. 

“Renegade,” Slade answered patiently. “He’s my apprentice.”

“I’m paying for _one_ merc, not two.”

“He comes free of charge tonight.” 

She didn’t seem to hear him. Suddenly distracted, she peered up at Dick intently. 

“He looks kinda familiar...” she said. The knife hilt landed flat in Dick’s palm. “Have I--?”

“Maybe you have.” Deathstroke turned away, pulling his glove back over the keypad. “But I think that our business is finished here. You can expect results by sunrise. Renegade?”

Dick dropped down from his perch and walked past the group after Slade. 

“Hold up!”

A heavy hand grabbed Dick’s shoulder, stopping him short. Dick shot a glare at the bodyguard behind him--the same one that had been eyeing him earlier--just as their client stepped into view to jab a finger into his face. “I knew it,” she hissed. “It’s that runaway sidekick from the news--that bird kid. Look, Deathstroke, if we even _suspect_ that this brat is gonna rat us out--”

Dick looked over at Slade and received the terse, permissive nod he was hoping for. A hard yank and a twist later the bulky bodyguard was flat on his back, wheezing in shock. 

Dick stalked past the speechless client over to where Slade stood waiting, but his mind was still stuck on what she had just said. 

_‘That runaway sidekick from the news’_

Slade was speaking, his tone far past frigid. “Whatever Renegade’s former occupation, he now works for me. He will be treated accordingly.”

The client mumbled some agreement. They left. 

The woman’s words looped through Dicks head with mind-numbing repetition. 

His next conscious action was to duck into the backseat of Slade’s car, and then they were driving again. A thickness had built in the back of his throat. He swallowed before he spoke. “The, uh...client, she mentioned the news. What have they been saying about...this. Sir.”

“Well.” Slade finished his turn. “Firstly, you might remember running into a city street last week. A _camera monitored_ city street.”

Dick slumped in his seat, groaning inwardly. As much as he wanted to blame the thief for that rookie mistake, he couldn’t.

But had that really only been one week ago?

“The press and law enforcement aren’t completely useless, and Renegade’s debut aligned with Robin’s disappearance so neatly that the coincidence sparked rumors--some more accurate than others. They haven’t managed to squeeze a statement out of a League member yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”

And Dick was wearing the R on his chest, like he was just begging to be recognized. Like he was _gloating_. And wouldn’t Slade just love it if that was exactly how it was interpreted. He shot a glare at the back of Slades head.

“Fortunately, I was already in the process of alerting the HIVE that I was after them. If I hadn’t been, you could have done us a great deal of damage.” Slade caught Dick’s eye in the rearview mirror, and Dick tried his best not to flinch. “Don’t let it happen again.”

Dick glared out the window with the intensity he wanted to direct at Slade. “It won’t, sir.”

He counted twenty-five long minutes before the car pulled into a narrow drive between two buildings and Slade pulled on his mask. 

The job sounded simple as Slade laid it out for him. The explosives were only intended to destroy the unoccupied weapons cache, and even though Slade would be keeping watch, so long as Dick placed the explosives quickly neither of them were likely to encounter any conflict. A clean, bloodless sabotage that, minus the intended benefit to underworld rivals, might even have done Batman proud. 

But the plan also dictated that they would fulfil their designated tasks separately. That should have been warning enough.

. . .

The churning gearwork overhead finalized their return to the base; only the thunder of it could swallow the silence that fed the hot fury gnawing at Dick’s insides. He couldn’t bring himself to _look_ at Slade--didn’t trust himself not to throw himself at the monster if he did, and he breathed, breathed, in and out through clenched teeth, and tried not to remember the--

Slade tossed him the sword-- _Deathstroke’s_ sword. Reactively Dick caught it by the gaudy brass hilt, and before he could stop himself, he stared at the blade. It was encrusted with rusty red stains. New stains.

“Take that. Clean and polish it. We’ll talk when you’re finished.”

Slade was already walking away, removing equipment and armor as he went.

In the final rush of approaching reinforcements Slade hadn’t wiped the sword himself, had only paused to scrape the long, dripping flat of it against a dead man’s pant leg.

Dick flung the weapon onto the floor, and it skidded to tap the back of Slade’s boot. Slade stopped.

“You just _murdered_ that man!” Dick yelled, his voice coming out hoarse and cracked. “You’re a damn _murderer_ and you expect me to...to--”

Slade turned slowly, just enough to look him in the eye. “What I _expect_ is for you to show a little respect.”

Dick scoffed. “You’ve _got_ to be kidding m--”

Sharp, ringing pain, his head snapping sideways and his body following, staggering under the force of the blow. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision, tasted blood, and saw Slade standing over him, so close that Dick needed to tilt his head all the way back just to see his masked face. His narrowed gaze seemed to study him. 

“You are acting incredibly childish for someone with so much to lose,” Slade said at last. He lifted his wrist, the left one with the computer. He let his other hand rest over it.

Dick glared up at him as he straightened, wiping the blood from his split lip. “If you killed even one of the Titans the secret would be out,” he said flatly. “They would know what you did to them, and you’re not about to throw away your only leverage just because I talked back to you.”

Slade tilted his head. “My only leverage?” 

Dick blinked. There was something he didn’t like in Slade’s tone, and he watched warily as the man clasped his hands behind his back. 

“Really,” Slade continued dryly. “You really don’t think me capable of framing their deaths as tragic, violent accidents? I’m insulted.”

Dick’s hand, the one slick with his own blood, clenched into a fist. He refused to imagine Slade’s threat enacted. He refused to imagine his friends’ bodies destroyed beyond any possibility of suspicion--because no frame up could fool Bruce. Batman’s reputation as the world’s greatest detective was not exaggerated, and Dick nearly spat that in Slade’s face--but Slade wasn’t finished.

“...But I won’t resort to that just yet. Two nights ago I planted a tracer on your thief. I know where he sleeps. He could disappear tonight, and I’m sure no one would miss _him_.”

The last words sank like a heavy stone into his gut. Red X? 

“But those threats clearly don’t mean much to you,” Slade added, and paused with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Maybe your former mentor would be interested in seeing footage of that contract you completed a few days ago--the one where you took out that dealer’s knees.”

_No._ His clenched fists shook. _No._

“Stand to attention, Renegade,” Slade said darkly. “Now.”

“I hate you,” he hissed, not caring how childish he sounded. “I...hate...”

“ _Now_ , Renegade.”

Still trembling, he straightened, refusing to think about it, staring straight ahead. Not at Slade. 

Slade nodded slowly. “Good. And now that we know where we stand, is there something you would like to say to me?”

Maybe if he clenched his teeth tightly enough, the image in his mind of Bruce’s horror-struck, disappointed expression would go away. “I’m...” humiliated heat flooded his face, his chest constricted painfully against his next breath, “...sorry...sir.” 

“Apology accepted.” Slade gestured toward the sword on the floor. “I expect that sword to be gleaming by the time I return.”

Slade was saying something about training with knives (Dick couldn’t breathe), and then he was gone (lungs locked tight under fractured ribs), and then Dick was bowed over with Slade’s sword across his knees, forcing himself to focus on breathing in, breathing out. And with every swipe of the cloth down the blade he imagined driving it through Slade’s chest. 

. . .

Training began, and it didn’t end until Dick managed to score a hit on Slade. It took time, patience, sweat, and blood, and because they had worn training sweats instead of kevlar he spent precious rest hours stitching up his own skin instead of his suit.

He didn’t even get the satisfaction of seeing Slade get stitches too. Mere minutes after scoring that gash in Slade’s side--that the man had barely flinched at in the first place--Dick noticed that the blood flow had stopped, replaced by smooth, unmarred skin. Dick had already known about Deathstroke’s enhanced abilities, but this was the first (and very unwelcome) evidence of a healing factor.

Another cycle, another rotation on the carousel, and they were leaving the base again.

. . .

Dick shifted in his position beside the skylight, and winced at the pull on his stitches--the stitches supposedly necessary to prepare him for tonight’s job, despite how unnecessary it was to use knives against a small mob of largely unarmed and untrained drug manufacturers.

His hand brushed restlessly over one of the ribbed hilts. Slade’s client wanted a dramatic example made of the thinly veiled heroin processing plant below, as well as of the men that were scheduled to arrive any minute now. 

Slade had sent him in solo again with the explicit instruction to return with blood on his knives. It was Slade’s way of getting the last word. Again.

His grip around the hilt tightened.

They were only tools, he reminded himself, just like Bruce had said all those years ago. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remember the exact words. To remember Batman’s shadow stretched over the table strewn over with miscellaneous weapons, gripping the table corners as he spoke.

_“Any tool that we use could prove lethal if mishandled. I’m teaching you how to use all of them so that when they are the only tools available to you, you will know to respect that. Even our bodies are tools--the most dangerous weapons we will ever have. That makes self-discipline our highest goal and our foremost responsibility.”_

_Dick eyed skeptically. “I don’t remember hearin’ any of that in the oath.”_

_Bruce returned his gaze so gravely that Dick blinked in surprise. “We vowed to fight against crime and corruption and never to swerve from the path of righteousness,” he said. “We can’t keep that vow without holding ourselves to the highest possible standard.”_

Dick’s mouth twisted into a scowl. He hadn’t been looking for another reminder of how far he’d fallen short of that standard, especially not from Batman. Dick had already broken their primary vow--spat on it, even--but at least the only times he’d lost control had been while fighting Slade. It was always because of Slade.

“Boo.”

Dick kicked back on reflex, it was deflected--and Red X was laughing. Dick scowled at him, but the kid’s shoulders were still shaking with quiet laughter. 

“What do you even--” Dick hissed, breaking off furiously, “--are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?”

The laughter stopped. For a moment Red X just stared at him. “Was that a threat from you, wonder boy?”

“You heard Deathstroke’s threats and I shouldn’t have to repeat them,” Dick snapped. X hadn’t even heard the worst of them. “How did you even find me this time?”

“What, you think I’ve actually been looking for your ugly mug?”

Dick glared at him, and X tipped his head back in what could only have been an eye roll.

“I came to loot the place--of _cash_ , don’t look at me like that--and to kick some well-deserving asses while I’m at it. Running into you again is just an unhappy coincidence.”

It was a lie--and a dangerously transparent one at that. Dick drew a long, steadying breath and tried to think. For once Slade had allowed him to plot out all the logistics--only for X to appear and not only muck it all up but also place himself squarely in Slade’s line of fire.

“So,” X interrupted his thoughts. “You ready to talk about it yet?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dick retorted, a little too tightly.

“Playing dumb isn’t a good look on you, bird-brain wonder. I’m talking about you and the big bad Bat and your new boss--y’know who I mean, big orange guy, fancy sword. What’s the deal?”

Maybe he _was_ trying to get himself killed. 

Pointedly, Dick returned to peering through the window. Men were filtering in through the entrance below, slowly but steadily. “Playing dumb doesn’t suit you either, X.”

X snorted. The voice modulator made the noise come out bizarrely distorted. “Alright, if you’re gonna be an ass, what I _really_ want to know is what made the Boy Wonder sell out to an effin’ _merc_.”

Dick, very carefully, didn’t look at X, didn’t speak. 

“Hey, it’s not like it’s any of my business,” X continued. “And if this is you sticking it to the Bat for whatever reason, then... _well_.”

Two more men wandered in. Fifteen in all, and it was time to move. 

Dick jabbed his thumb into the trigger with more force than was strictly necessary. He had planted explosives throughout the unoccupied lab--and against the fuse box--before positioning himself beside the skylight, and their detonation sent faint shockwaves all the way up to his vantage point. 

Then, at last, with an emphatic _snap_ , the building below plunged into pitch blackness.

Dick switched on his night vision and pulled the skylight open. “Look,” he whispered, bracing for the jump. “No offense, but I need you to get lost right about now.”

X laughed sharply and plunged down ahead of him.

Dick grabbed after him, missed, and could only watch in helpless frustration as the boy swung from the rafters and with his tattered cape billowing out behind him landed squarely on a dealer’s shoulders.

Dick stopped himself just short of jumping after him. Slade must have heard that conversation if he hadn’t seen it. “Deathst--” he began hastily, but caught himself. “Sir, what do you want me to--”

_“Follow your instructions, Renegade. His presence shouldn’t interfere with them.”_

Frowning, Dick dropped the subject with a muttered ‘yes sir’. 

He leapt, grabbed the beam below him, swung himself toward the wall, kicked off, and landed in a somersault. He had both knives in hand before he finished rolling to his feet, and hesitated only to locate X. It wasn’t difficult. The thudding blows and cries of pain coming from the far side of the room would have been enough to find him blindfolded. The cries weren’t from X, of course. Having seen that the kid was handling himself perfectly well, Dick hissed out a sigh and started working. 

The weapons acted as extensions of his body, though after so many years of throwing similar projectiles his fingers itched to let them fly. But he didn’t. The hilts stayed seated in his palms just as instructed, forcing him to adapt his style. He worked with his legs, arms, and fisted hands, with the blade occasionally used to strategically skewer cloth and the hilt to jab into a jaw or solar plexus.

It wouldn’t be enough. It couldn’t be, and foreboding clung to him like a cold sweat. Red X took down another man across the room with an oddly familiar aerial grace, completely oblivious to how his very presence was a glaring reminder of everything Dick had to lose.

_“That’s some very light knifework, Renegade.”_

Slade’s voice was dry, but warning. The fresh wounds under Dick’s suit were both sensitive and itching. He could barely ignore them anymore. 

He could have used the knives--probably would have, with more freedom...but the night before, Slade had set him against another dummy, ordering him to target the most critical areas of the human body until his hands stopped twitching mid-thrust or throw. Years ago, Bruce had trained him similarly--but with the critical points highlighted to emphasize that they were to be avoided at all cost. 

_“It can be difficult to unlearn bad habits,”_ Slade had said, then, as he redirected another of Dick’s imprecise throws, _“especially those learned from a bad teacher.”_

Dick had made some wisecrack afterward, like, ‘ _oh, so_ that’s _how you’re hoping this training will stick_ ’ ...but his memory of what had happened next was a little fuzzy. 

Dick gritted his teeth as he dealt another finishing blow.

Come to think of it, all his injuries that night had come afterward.

Huh.

He hadn’t been keeping an eye on X. He briefly diverted his attention from the burly, roaring thug who was tripping over himself trying to get a hit on him. The room was almost clear now, with only Dick’s opponent remaining aside from the two men circling X. The boy disposed of one opponent with that rapid potence that still itched strangely at the back of Dick’s mind--and then something gleamed silver in X’s right hand. 

A dagger, with an uniquely waved, glinting blade.

An _Al Ghul_ dagger.

And Dick had just enough time to knock down his own opponent and think, _so_ that’s _why his combat seemed so familiar_ , before X met his gaze for a flickering instant and then plunged his dagger into the man’s torso.

X yanked it out, and Dick was already moving with a shout when the man dropped with a breathless whine, clutching his torso, the white shirt already soaking a dangerous dark color. 

“ _X_ ,” Dick repeated, dropping to his knees beside the man, desperately searching for anything to staunch the wound. He gave up, pressing his hands over the wound instead. The man screamed, high and hoarse, but he was already too weak to resist the pressure. “Why...” Dick hissed, “why would you just--”

_“Renegade!”_ Slade barked into his ear. He stilled. _“Get a hold of yourself and get back to work._ Now _.”_

A frozen moment passed. 

The man’s hands were shaking, resistant, as Dick maneuvered them to apply pressure to the wound. 

( _it isn’t enough_ ) 

Slowly, robotically, Dick pulled away.

( _he’ll die_ )

_“Now,”_ Slade’s voice continued, _“repeat after me: ‘What you do is your own business’.”_

“What you do is your own business,” Dick said hoarsely, not looking at X. The man was dying. Bleeding out. Dick swung around. “Who gave you that dagger?” he demanded acidly.

Red X just gazed back, inscrutable in both his posture and masked face. “I think you know,” he said at last.

Dick eyed the boy dubiously, but the anger churning in his chest had already begun to change direction. _Looks like Ra’s is training them younger these days._

_“Look alive, Renegade.”_

Three, five, _seven_ men came hurtling through the open doorway--with three guns between them. The men saw the bodies strewn across the floor and stopped short, swearing as they raised their weapons.

Dick didn’t give them a chance to rally before lunging into the thick of it. He didn’t need to look to know that X followed him.

_“Your combat style is overly deliberate and impractical,”_ Slade’s voice cut in briskly as Dick disarmed the foremost gunman. _“You worry about damaging them and that wastes precious time. For this round I expect you to finish the job in half the time. No arguments.”_

Dick’s already racing heartbeat quickened. Slade would pick up on that, but it wouldn’t make a difference. It was, after all, the result Slade was hoping for. 

_“Sixty seconds.”_

Slade was hoping he would get reckless and already, he needed to. Dick flipped, kicked one thug under the chin, whirled to stare into the barrel of a gun, dropped, and let the knife in his right hand fly. It sliced the thug’s gun hand. The gun dropped with a cry, and the bloodied knife disappeared among the chaos.

_“Scratches don’t count, Renegade. Forty seconds.”_

Adrenaline kicked in full force. He ducked a swing, saw X twist a thug’s arm until he screamed. Dick jabbed his elbow into his opponent’s gut, grabbed his gun arm and shoved upward. 

Thunderous gunfire sprayed across the rafters. 

His ears were ringing. His muscles were tiring, locking up, and he had no time to wrestle. He wrenched the arm down again and stabbed into his gun hand. He caught the dropping gun and silenced the screaming man with the butt of his own weapon. 

Precious seconds _wasted_. 

_“Another scratch. Twelve.”_

X had taken down another two already. Slade had probably noticed that. Dick forced himself to breathe, see, _think_. 

_“Ten, Renegade.”_

Dick slammed into the next thug’s legs in the same instant that X slammed into his shoulders, and in another instant the man was down.

_“Five.”_

One left. _Running_. Dick stared, in that moment _knowing_ that there was no physical means of stopping him. No way of rendering him unquestionably subdued within the given time frame, except--

_“Three...two...”_

With practiced ease from years working with circus knives and needle-sharp batarangs, and knowing the exact point Slade wanted him to aim for, he threw, and he didn’t blink.

_“...one.”_

The projectile buried itself in the man’s thigh, just short of that critical point. 

Slade was saying something. The man’s injured leg buckled and he went down screaming, trying uselessly to grab for the knife until Dick snapped out of his reverie and moved to retrieve it himself. He needed to hold the man down with one hand to retrieve the knife. It was slick with blood, all the way down to the end of the hilt. It didn’t matter. His hands were soaked already.

The man’s sharp gasp as he removed it smothered him with a nauseous wave of dejavu. 

“What the hell,” X’s voice growled behind him. “What the _hell_ was that? So you can freak out at me for something only to do it yourself--what, five minutes later? Hey-- _look at me_!” 

A hand grabbed his arm, yanked on him until he turned to look into Red X’s mask. Somehow, it failed to disguise the twisted fury in his features. Dick stared blankly at X, and then again at the man on the ground. At the dark wet staining his gloves. At the other man behind X, who was still grasping weakly at his own wound.

Dick looked down again at his own handiwork. That injury would never heal, not completely. He wouldn’t lie to himself this time. In the murky artificial light he could see too clearly, make out every detail of the irrevocable damage he’d done, and...X was right. A shiver ran down his body, down the arm that X was still gripping. He wrenched it away and turned his back on it all. 

He needed to think. He needed to... 

_“And that completes your assignment. Well done, Renegade. You know where to meet me.”_

He threw another long look behind him, and he couldn’t...

“I...” he half-whispered, and swallowed, “I need to go.” 

He threw one helpless look at X. The boy was still staring at him, but the hint of expression was gone. Somehow the blank stare in its stead was worse.

Dick shot his grapple up toward the skylight without another glance to make him falter. 

\+ - + - + - +

Poisonous green blocked out Jason’s view of the skylight, bubbled up like anger in his chest, like ice in his veins, foul and toxic on his tongue--

He squeezed his eyes shut, biting down on his lip and not even breathing as he fought it back. 

The pit hadn’t left him. It still hadn’t, it had stolen half of _him_ \--his...his _feeling_ , both physical and emotional, and what feeling did rush in threatened to boil over like the furious wrongness of the pit, rushing through him exactly when it shouldn’t. The pit should have healed the Joker’s injuries, but the scars still lived and burned like brands under his skin.

He reached up behind his head with ice cold hands, dug his fingers into his mask until it hurt, and groaned out his frustration.

When he’d first heard rumor of the original Robin’s swan-dive from grace, he had laughed so hard that his chest ached. Jason had failed Bruce in every way imaginable, died and come back screaming and killing and irrevocably tainted in everyone’s eyes, he couldn’t go back home even if he wanted to--and he _didn’t_ want to--but then he had heard about the Red X robberies, and then Deathstroke, and thought...maybe he wasn’t the only one who failed.

And after what he’d just watched he wanted nothing more than to slam his head against the nearest wall.

Even _before_...before the warehouse, Quinn, and _Joker_...Dick Grayson hadn’t been easy to read, but he had never been this insufferably _contradictory_. Not that Jason had ever actually been given the chance to understand his so-called brother, but at least it hadn’t felt like playing a game of 20 Questions when he _tried_.

He hissed out a sigh and cracked his neck before swinging around on his heel to survey the drug dealer, whose trembling fists were clenching soaked bunches of t-shirt in a futile effort to staunch the wound. Jason deliberated for a long moment before gathering up a fistful of his already tattered cape. 

“At least no one will notice the difference,” he muttered, and used Talia’s dagger to rip out a long, thick strip of cloth. 

As Jason approached, the dealer scrambled backward a pitiful few inches, snarling at him with the wild, glazed eyes of a cornered animal. Behind his mask, Jason’s lip curled. The dirtbag deserved to die there, alone on the cold floor, like so many of his victims as they left their families--their _kids_ \--to figure out how to survive without them. 

“D...don’t friggin t-touch me you psychotic little brat,” the man spat, only for his head to drop back against the floor with a gasp. 

Jason knelt, and none too gently forced the strap of fabric around the man’s waist to apply pressure to the wound. “Oh, believe me, I wouldn’t,” he replied acidly, not minding at all when the new pressure made the man go mute with pain. “Let’s just say I’m doing this for a friend.”

\+ - + - + - +

He should go back. 

The cold crept inward, coiled tight in Dick’s chest, and stayed. 

Did abandoning a dying man make him a murderer? 

No...no, not technically. Technically, it was negligence. Not that it made a difference in the end. For anyone. There would be a funeral, mourners--unless the man was alone. If so, his body would be burned, his ashes tucked into a dark corner and forgotten. 

Dick couldn’t imagine anything much worse than that. 

Cold, damp wind swept at his face and hair. He shivered, and found himself huddled beside the skylight, clinging to the sloping rain-slick sheets of cold metal with tacky fingers. He might have missed a comm message from Slade.

And the injured man might already be dead.

With automatic motions he moved to the next building. Slade’s car was still parked a block away. Wailing sirens and blaring horns were coming closer; someone must have reported the explosions and gunfire. He paused a few rooftops away to catch his breath, and waited until the sounds became ear-piercing. The empty pit in his stomach told him that they hadn’t come in time. 

Dick saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t move as X approached, didn’t turn, just waited for him to say his piece and leave.

“Don’t you just love keeping those medics in business?” There was a tight levity in the boy’s voice, an obvious attempt to lighten the mood. Dick still didn’t turn. “They only took the two of ‘em out on stretchers, but the cops are already hearing some _spectacularly_ contradictory stories from the rest.”

It took a moment. Dick looked over sharply, took in Red X’s pale gloves with dark-stained palms--the unmistakable wet gleam on his knees. The wind ruffled his cape, pulling it out just enough to reveal a long, clumsily sawed-off section.

Had he...?

Dick stared again at the skull mask that he had designed to hide his face from his own friends and again hated himself for creating it. But this time he hated it because the boy (assassin? thief?) had gone out of his way to help him twice--no, _three_ times now, and Dick couldn’t look him in the eye and understand _why_.

A _thank you_ that would have told Slade far too much about the situation formed and died before it left his tongue. Suddenly lightheaded, he sank down to sit on the roof and stared down at his loosely crossed legs. He realized his mistake when X sat down beside him, leaning forward in an idle, familiar way to see his face. 

And last night Slade had rammed a knife hilt into his chin. Dick’s fingers twitched toward the bruise on his chin--and then, with a rush of relief, he remembered that he’d smeared concealer over the mark before setting out. 

But that bottle of concealer had appeared in his bathroom just last night, so conveniently after his newest injuries, and now he was _grateful_ to Slade for helping him cover them up. The irony all but slapped him in the face, but it was for the best. X had seen too much already. 

“So, Robin...” X said, and Dick almost flinched.

“You need to stop calling me that,” he said quickly. “It’s ‘Renegade’, now.”

X was quiet for a moment. “Well, that’s sure to tick off Batman.” 

Dick looked away, focusing on the sparse city lights that peppered this low end of the city. “...Yeah,” he said quietly.

_“Enough moping, Renegade,”_ Slade said in that warning tone that set Dick’s teeth on edge. 

“So, _Renegade_ ,” X said again, as though he hadn’t been interrupted, “how’s the mercenary life been treating you?”

_Like a piñata._

Dick stood abruptly and moved to go. “It’s all sunshine and daisies and I _really_ need to get going.”

“One question first,” the boy said, standing too. “That assassin--Deathstroke. Why did you call him ‘sir’?”

Dick halted, breath catching in his chest and then releasing in a thinly controlled hiss. “I’d say ‘see ya later’, X, but for your sake I _really_ hope you find a new line of work.” 

He moved to go again. X’s grip on his arm stopped him, and this time it was even tighter. 

“Hell no,” X snapped. “You’re not going anywhere--not until I get an answer or two. I saved your neck back there. You _owe_ me.”

Dick carefully schooled his features into a mask. At least the darkness would hide the shame warming his face. “I...work for Deathstroke now. I don’t need another reason.”

X scoffed. “After the way you belted it out like he was your army commander or something, yeah, you _do_.”

Dick bared his teeth in warning. “Let go. Now.”

“Quit with that crap,” X snapped. “What are you doing out here in the first place?”

“ _X_.”

“So you finally figured out that Batman’s a hypocritical dipstick, fantastic, good for you--but throwing in with Deathstroke the freaking _Terminator_? The hell were you even thinking?” The boy’s grip tightened, almost crushing, impossibly so for his size, “Something happened to you. Tell me what he--”

Dick grabbed X’s wrist, wrenched it away from his arm. “Will you just--” he twisted, chest burning, seized a snarl of cape around X’s neck, “-- _SHUT UP_?” 

X stared. 

Regret set in hard and fast, building in his throat, and Dick lowered his gaze. His hold on the cape loosened. “I...” he whispered, faltering.

Suddenly, roughly, X twisted away from his grip and turned away. He stopped there, and Dick stared uselessly at his back. This was his fault. Not X’s...no matter what the boy wanted from him. And Dick wished it wasn’t so easy to take a guess.

“I’m...sorry, X, but...” he broke off, stared off to the side, at the light-speckled distance, seeing nothing, “I need another friend like I need a lobotomy.”

“Just,” X paused, faint Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed, “this is really what you want? You honestly want to be an assassin?”

Dick let his eyes fall closed. So, he was disappointing another person. He should really be used to that by now.

X was looking at him again, studying his face. Dick forced a smile. The expression felt wrong on his face, it shouldn’t have ached, but he tried to make it look genuine. “Hey, it’s my future, right?” he said lightly. “I know what I’m doing.”

. . .

Dick was a better liar that he’d like to be, out of necessity. His life had been marked with both white lies and grey ever since he first found the batcave. It was the first skill Batman had ever taught him, though even at the time Dick had known how uncomfortable Bruce was with that. He couldn’t say whether X had believed him, but he had seemed to accept Dick’s answer at any rate, and for now that would have to do. 

Slade only nodded to him when he settled into the backseat. No scolding, no frigid silence, and Dick had that unexpectedly unsettling shock to stew over until they reached the base.

Slade didn’t speak until they reached the main room. 

“Tell me what happened tonight.” 

Dick froze with his equipment belt halfway undone, but Slade’s voice hadn’t sounded stern. Slade had removed his long overcoat and was dismantling his equipment at the table just left of the computers reserved for cleaning and maintenance.

“With X, sir? I...”

“No. You will report back to me following a completed contract, so,” Slade gestured vaguely toward him, “from the beginning.”

Dick recoiled inwardly at the prospect. The past few hours were ones that he very much did not want to relive. “But you saw it,” he protested. “Heard it. You might as well have _been_ there.”

Slade looked at him, lime green glow from the computer screens glinting in his narrowed eye. “I didn’t hear much respect in that tone.”

Dick winced inwardly. “Sorry sir. But I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to.” Slade settled into his desk chair, still facing Dick, and steepled his fingers before his face in a way that should _not_ have sent Dick flashing back to years of Batcave lectures. “I’ve asked you a question, Renegade. Stand to attention and answer.”

Anger roiled raw and simmering in Dick’s stomach, and he nearly waited for Slade to enforce the order a second time--but he hesitated just long enough to suppress the urge with a breath before straightening, lifting his chin, and reciting his actions with the impersonal detail he would have written into a report in the cave or at Titans tower, all while carefully fixing his gaze just left of Slade’s face.

As he reached his combat maneuvers, and what he could remember of Red X’s, Slade would stop him intermittently and ask questions, whether he recognized a mistake, or if he might move differently if he could repeat his actions.

_Only if I could prevent the violence_ , Dick didn’t say. Slade must have read it in his face, but he didn’t comment, instead giving input on alternative routes he could have taken, how a twisted arm here or critically aimed blow there would have been a faster, more efficient maneuver. It would have saved him time. Dick didn’t nod, only listened and waited for Slade to finish. He already knew that subduing an opponent without causing injury required a special kind of dedication you were unlikely to find in anyone who didn’t care that it was all but impossible for a crook to turn his life around while crippled and drowning in hospital bills.

“You might think you already know this,” Slade said, as though hearing his thoughts, “that you simply chose not to use these maneuvers, but I want you to think them over and remember. Limiting your options to over-convoluted maneuvers only hampers you; unchecked, one day it will kill you.”

“Batman’s been managing just fine,” Dick snapped--impulsively, and he stiffened, straightened, averted his gaze, and waited for the explosion. 

“But you aren’t him, are you?” After an uncertain moment Dick risked a glance at Slade’s face, but it was as relaxed as his tone. “What did you think of your thief tonight?”

That was the first mention of X.

Dick balked, fighting to keep his expression neutral, and Slade raised an eyebrow at his silence. “Well?”

Was it a trick question? 

Dick faltered another moment. “I thought he was...capable, sir,” he said at last.

“Was he useful?” 

“He, uh...helped save time. But I hadn’t expected him, so things got...chaotic.”

“And what about your...rooftop encounter.”

And there it was. Dick’s mouth suddenly felt dry. “He...” _asked too many questions_ , “was trying to be friendly, sir.”

“He was too curious for his own good,” Slade corrected him, and Dick’s heart felt like it stopped in his chest. “But you handled him rather well, considering.” Slade’s chair swivelled around to face the computer desk, and so he didn’t see Dick’s slackened expression of surprise. “If you find him useful I wouldn’t object if you utilize his abilities for future jobs.” 

Dick’s jaw dropped, certain that he must have misheard, but he didn’t have a chance to speak before Slade continued. 

“--But remember. That boy has his own agenda, and if it ever interferes with your own the responsibility will be yours. And his, of course,” Slade added, and the flicker of hope that had risen in Dick’s chest rocketed down into his socks.

So long as X stayed near Renegade, and by extension Deathstroke, he would be in danger. Of course this was just another opportunity for Slade to wave that blackmail in his face.

“At ease,” Slade said without turning, and Dick’s shoulders slumped slightly with the weight of the day. “Clean your weapons and then you’re free to go. You’ve earned a night to yourself.”

Dick stared at Slade’s back, still at the computers, caught off balance again. Was Slade giving him...free time? For the past week his every waking hour had been written out for him on a schedule, with his only opportunities to relax coming in the form of gymnastics, warm up stretches, and sleep. 

Was this a reward?

Half in a daze, Dick returned to dismantling his equipment. Cleaning and polishing the knives shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, and then, maybe...

“Forgetting something, kid?”

A wave of resignation sent Dick’s eyes falling closed with a faint sigh. 

“Thank you sir,” he said, not quite so stiffly as he had the first time Slade pulled the phrase out of him.

Once the knives were gleaming like mirrors Dick left them with his belt on the equipment table and hurried out of the room. He showered, changed into the jeans and evergreen hoodie from the small pile of clothes that had been left in his room a few days ago, discarded his suit in the washroom, and made his way toward one of the few hall doors that was regularly left ajar: a decently sized sitting room positioned roughly halfway between the kitchen and Dick’s room. 

With a wood floor instead of pitted cement and leather upholstery instead of training equipment, it was the most livable space that Dick had seen in the bunker--though he’d never had time to so much as set foot in it. 

He snatched up the TV remote and finally gave into exhaustion. Tumbling head first onto the couch, he landed sprawled with his legs dangling over the back and tipped back his head to stare at the TV screen while he switched through the few bland channels that Slade had deigned to splurge on with his millions in blood money. Begrudgingly, Dick settled on the local news channel. His only other options were a poorly acted soap opera, depressing jewelry advertisements, or staring at the now upside-down mounted animals and antlers that decorated all four walls.

The one directly across from him, above the television (or below, from his perspective), was the broad head of a tiger. She had thick, rich auburn fur, and her beautiful face had been twisted into a false snarl post-mortem. Dick redirected his attention to the news.

The morning news had begun a few minutes ago, and the woman on the screen wore a plastic smile as she described a benefit Lex Luthor had held in Metropolis the night before. The channel played a clip of Luthor rattling off a few brisk, meaninglessly altruistic anecdotes to the camera, and Dick puffed up his cheeks and blew out slowly, rolling his eyes down to the floor. He couldn’t imagine how Clark could stand seeing his arch nemesis treated like a celebrity. Gotham had more than its fair share of mob affiliated politicians, but this was like the _Joker_ being a media favorite. 

Belatedly, Dick flinched. It came like a slap in the face every time he remembered. Joker wasn’t just another creepy rogue anymore, he couldn’t ever be, not after... 

Dick’s hands twisted at the fabric of his hoodie until it squeezed red hot pain out of his still sensitive ribs. Jason’s ribs hadn’t been broken, they had been _shattered_. Months back, Dick had hacked the batcomputers, read the report. All of Jay’s ribs, every single one-- 

_“...the most high profile donor to accept an invitation to the benefit, Mr. Bruce Wayne of Gotham fame, failed to attend…”_

Dick was sitting bolt upright in an instant, staring wide-eyed at the screen plastered with Bruce’s face, lit up with his trademark ‘Brucie’ smile. 

That wasn’t _Bruce_ ’s smile, never had been. On the rare occasions that Dick saw Bruce _really_ smile the lines on his face would crinkle and make him seem _ancient_ to an eight year old’s eyes. Back then, he’d called his new guardian ‘old man’. 

When was the last time he’d called Bruce that?

The screen was blurred and wavering by the time Bruce’s face was replaced by the newswoman. 

_You’re being monitored, idiot_ , Dick scolded himself, swiping at his eyes through the mask. He realized that he had missed the rest of what the woman had said. 

Bruce had skipped the benefit? His mouth twitched into a grin. Bruce rarely missed high profile benefits, no matter who was hosting them. So long as his presence helped raise the charity funds, he considered it one of his chief responsibilities as a Wayne. 

Dick slumped back on the couch, a little giddy at the first glimmer of evidence that Bruce was actually _looking_ for him. 

_“...Arkham Asylum experienced another security breach last night, and at least two inmates are believed to have escaped the premises. Gotham City residents are advised to remain indoors and avoid both public and isolated areas until the patients have been contained.”_

Leaping to his feet, Dick was standing and ready before remembering his surroundings--but he still couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen. 

_“...rumor has it that the Gotham Police Department lit up the sky with a bat signal to summon the local folk legend, Batman, but as the signal was left unextinguished until sunrise we are left to speculate whether the Dark Knight ever appeared.”_

So Batman might not be in Gotham. He might be searching. 

During an _Arkham breakout_. 

Batman never ignored a signal. It was practically a sacred duty, and in Gotham those foundations kept you sane. As Batman’s Robin, holding to those constants meant certainty that the dynamic duo could brave anything the city threw at them, and that with an unshakable Batman Gotham would never fall. 

_“--just now released to the public, that the most dangerous inmate listed among the escapees is the Joker, I repeat, the Joker--_ ” 

_Joker_. 

Dick’s fingers, shaking now, curled against his chest until it burned. 

_Again_. 

Until just recently, Robin had been a constant too, but then the _last_ Arkham breakout had led to... _Jason_. And now... 

Now, Dick began to wonder how many broken constants might it take for Batman to be broken too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I love hearing your thoughts!  
> I posted a drawing based off a scene in this chapter: [here](https://chief-of-restless-hearts.tumblr.com/post/642866575590014976/bury-the-hatchet-or-bury-a-friend-right-now-x-i#notes)  
> The next chapter goes back to Gotham. :)


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